Dragon of the East
by Okan-Zeeus
Summary: An epic account of four souls, whose fates become intertwined by the return of the dragons. This is a retelling of Skyrim's events as inspired by one of my most memorable playthroughs.
1. Arc 1 - Prologue

**_Arc 1 – Prologue_**

_Okan-Zeeus (Narrator)_

_Nine years ago…_

A soft patter of rain was falling. I slowly sloughed out of the waist high marsh, thick with mud and algae. The remnants of dusk sifting through the tops of vine festooned trees began to fade as the sky clotted with a dark overcast. The air was heavy and humid, waft with the scents of decaying wood and fungi. Torch bugs and bright yellow shines receded from the coming storm, taking with them their lights that reflected across the waters. I slumped down onto the moss covered floor.

For many minutes I sat in silence, feeling the weight of my chest rising and falling with each winded breath. I tore off a sleeve from my clothes, frayed and worn, exposing a bleeding gash beneath. I had not stopped running since escaping Archon. For nearly two days I fled, dodging patrols and scouting parties through the fetid swamps of Black Marsh. I was able to avoid most of them; others I could not. They forced my hand. I was tired...

As I stretched my opposing palm over the injured arm, a shimmering glow came forth as my healing spell quickly worked to close the wound. I savored the magic's warmth, letting out a long, placated sigh. Light washed against my face, glistening off of the fresh, reddened claw-mark scars that lined my left jaw. In time, the gash was healed. I laid back to rest.

But my eyes would not close. Footsteps could be heard trekking through the damp, loamy soil. Gently, I came to my feet, hand resting on the hilt of a sword sheathed upon my belt sash. I turned and saw the figured of a woman standing behind me. An Argonian, same as I. The faint incandescence of the nearly set sun shone on her reptilian features and fawn colored scales.

"I did not expect you to run away like this, Okan-Zeeus," she said. I clenched my weapon more tightly.

"…Zollassa," I hissed, "Are you here to kill me?"

"No," she said. I looked away. My posture became lax.

"Then why do you care?"

"Cold words to speak to a friend..."

"I do not want conversation."

Zollassa moved closer, her eyes meeting mine.

"You would rather run?" she asked.

"There is nothing left for me here," I spoke plainly, "And I will not lie down and die for the wrongs of dead men."

"Xhu," she replied thoughtfully, "I understand." A sullen look crossed my face.

"Do you?"

"Okan, you did nothing to deserve the execution they sentenced you. I know this. Deerkaza, Mahei-Ru – they all know it. What you did-"

"Please, Zol," I interrupted, shaking my head, "Spare me no pity. I never asked for any."

"This still hurts you …"

I began to walk away, refusing to respond. The deluge was spilling with swelled force.

"Okan-Zeeus," Zollassa called out to me, "They will not stop looking for you."

"If they wish to waste more lives in pursuit of me, let them," I vexed, "I will endure."

"So you will go on killing?"

I stopped walking.

There was a pause. Zollassa looked thoughtful.

"I admire your resolve," she replied, "But you cannot seek absolution you have no need for. Their deaths were not your fault."

She must have learned what had happened. Turning back, I spoke to the last friend I would have to leave behind.

"You really believe I am blameless?" I reproached.

"I believe you have always wanted to do what is right."

"Then know that nothing I do from here on is for myself. I owe this to them, not me."

"You owe them nothing. They were happy in life. Why do you choose to carry this guilt?"

"Because I am the only one left who can!" I snapped, my voice loud and roaring, "This guilt is _mine_, Zollassa! You of all people should know – ours was meant to be a path of isolation, disconnected from the world. Those who bare death have no place among the living. I sealed their fates the moment their lives intertwined with my own."

"Do not say such things," Zollassa beseeched, "You never wanted that. You loved them."

"Of course I did!" I yelled through the torrent of rain, streaming down the sides of my face like tears, "But it changes nothing! I should have known better than to hope I could become anything more than what I am – a killer of men and a taker of lives!"

Zollassa's expression became stern.

"Then why run?" she asked.

…

"…Because even in my despair, I have not given up my hope."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

_I hope the structure of these chapters is clear. Everything is in first person - the narrator will always be stated at the beginning, to prevent any confusion. Different chapters will have different narrators._

_If you took the time to read this, please, let me know what you think! Any feedback is appreciated! I've been putting my heart and soul into these writings, and its been a lot of fun. I'll keep going if people keep reading._

_Check out my profile page for links to more story content not on this website!_


	2. Arc 1 - Chapter 1

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 1_**

_Chases-The-Wind_

The scent of roasting trout lingered in the crisp, northern air. Setting down my crossbow onto the snow covered podzol, I turned in my seat to the fish that lay spitted over a small, smokeless fire. I pulled away the darkened morsel, spewing a mouthful of water from my canteen over the tinder, dousing it.

As I salted the fish, I ventured another gaze across the cliff's edge. Silhouettes of jagged mountains clawing the sky marked the edge of all visible sight. Surrounding me were spires and hills of stalwart standing rock among lush green pines, both flecked with pockets of white. Sounds of unseen life filled the silence of the glade, veiled by a thick morning fog. I would relax, at times, enjoying the serene solitude of nature. Then a frigid wind would blow upon my scales, reminding me that I found the bitter cold of Skyrim wholly unpleasant. My disgust of trout did not help the matter…

My rations had run low and I was forced to scavenge for anything that I could in the immediate wilderness. Fortunate, then, that I stumbled upon a small pond some ways back to the south-east, nestled within the rocky crags of a wintry massif, the heart of the Jerall Mountains. I stopped for a time to fish for brown trout in the freezing tarn before hiking onward. My red, saurian skin still faintly glistened with moisture, while a thick coat fashioned of fur and leather persisted to dry me.

For an Argonian such as I, catching fish comes easily. A form that respires under water and swims with the swift speed of dolphins aids in such things. Of course, I hate eating them. Fish, I mean.

I took one last, unsavory bite before resuming my work. Having tightened its drawstring, I gathered up my crossbow, unloaded, and pulled back the steel priming lever to test its mechanics. I squeezed the trigger, still gripping the lever to keep it from snapping, bearing the energy of the weapon as it sought release. Slowly I let loose the tension, smiling to myself. An unfortunate encounter with a frost troll had rendered the instrument unusable. Now the damages were repaired and the weapon's strength was restored.

Laying the crossbow aside, I rested back against a boulder, propping up one knee and setting my tail between my legs as I stared into the blank clouds. Traversing through the Jerall had been a difficult endeavor, but well worthwhile. The harsh conditions deterred any pursuit – I was able to cross the border into Skyrim unnoticed and unfollowed. No one would think to search for me in this cold northland, so far away from the colovian cities of Cyrodiil, or the humid swamps of Black Marsh. It had been well over a year since the last time an attempt was made at my life. I finally began to feel peace. Nomadic life wasn't easy, but I had adjusted to it.

My eyes shut as I immersed myself in the euphony of the encircling alpines. There were echoes of coyotes crying in the distance, amidst the chirrups and cacophony of birds. Wind rustled through the thick, pine coated branches of the tress, blowing away wisps of snow like dust, howling as it passed my ears. I could faintly hear men talking and – what was the sound? Horse drawn carriage wheels grating along a stone pathway?

I snapped open my eyes. Before drawing a second breath, I was up in a crouch, my back against the trunk of a tree that stood between me and the source of the noise. I listened closely once more. The creaking and grinding of wheels continued. I had not mistaken my hearing. There were carriages nearby, several of them, amidst a company of men. I could not make out how many.

That needed to change.

I grabbed what belongings remained on the ground – a leather knapsack with supplies and essentials, along with my crossbow – and pulled a fur hood over my head, two holes cut in the back for my horns to fit through. Clenching the knife that rested on my belt, I slowly slinked toward the road and perched myself atop the high bluffs of the rocky hills. The traveling band would come from further up. I waited.

The morning fog still lingered, but I knew not for how long. I decided to avoid relying on it and maintain a considerable distance. My clothing provided poor concealment against the snow, and my bright, red skin tone would quickly expose me in daylight. Challenging conditions for reconnaissance, but I'd dealt with worse.

Soon, the wooden carriages faded into view. There were three, accompanied by horseback riders at the front and rear. Upon the horses and coaches sat soldiers, Imperial legionnaires, clad in armors of leather and steel with red cloth accents and swords at their sides. In the carts sat Nord men and women, wearing leather mail painted blue and lined with brown furs. Their hands were bound. I took them to be prisoners of some kind, though I did not recognize their uniforms.

A particular cart caught my eye. Three men were sitting in it. One of them had long, matted hair and a thin, scraggly beard; bright blonde, almost platinum in color. He was well built and wore the same garments as the other captives. Across from him sat another man clothed in a fur-trimmed cloak, regal looking, with thick boots on his feet and bracers on his arms. His hair was lengthy, thrown back and light brown, with a single braid on either side behind his ears. He was gagged with a strip of cloth that covered his mouth. I found it strange that none of the others had been muzzled in this manner. The third man wore only a rough spun tunic, little more than a garb of rags. His face was covered in dirt.

"Shut up back there!"

The soldier who drove the carriage barked back at the Nords. I remained uphill among the crags, now following the procession, straining to hear the sounds of conversation. To be true, I knew I had no business meddling in the affair. Only my curiosity led me forward. The man in rags leaned toward the other who was gagged, saying something I could not make out. Then the one with bright blonde hair began to raise his voice indignantly.

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king!"

That had my attention. I knew little about the structure of government in Skyrim, but I did know that the high king was said to be the sovereign ruler of the province. Under imperial administration, the position had become slightly more a figure head than anything else. Still, Skyrim's high king held great political power. Who was this man, Ulfric Stormcloak? I wanted to hear more. Risking my cover, I moved closer to the carriage, beginning to catch the words of the man in rags as he spoke to Ulfric.

"…the Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion! But if they've captured you…"

I missed the last portion of the sentence. One of the soldiers riding rear guard passed a glance at the hill where I held my footing. I quickly withdrew behind a cluster of rocks. The fog was clearing and the coverings of snow were thinner. The carriages had headed further north, away from the base of the mountains toward greener woodlands. In the distance, I could see the make of a cobbled stone gateway with shingled roofing, adjacent to walls of timber. They were traveling to a village. I peered over my cover, listening to the blonde man speak once more.

"…don't know where we're going. But sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde. The Nordic afterlife. I realized then that these were no mere carriages transporting convicts. They were tumbrils, filled with insurrectionists being led to their execution. Dawn began to break. I stayed my course, following the convoy as it neared the town's large wooden gates, swung open to allow passage. There was a fork in the road, along with a road sign bearing arrows that disclosed the destinations of each pathway. The one that pointed ahead to the journey's end of the carriages read "Helgen."


	3. Arc 1 - Chapter 2

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 2_**

_Chases-The-Wind_

Helgen was a peculiar town, settled in thin sheets of snow. The Throat of the World loomed in the north-eastern sky, an enormous alp that towered among the clouds, the tallest peak in all of Tamriel. At the village, Nords dwelled in shelters made of wood with thatched roofing, enclosed within walls of pine and granite. The southern border was shielded by a northward facing mountain side. There were imperial garrisons in watch towers and an ancient stone stronghold from which the community had extended.

Men and women emerged from the warm hearths of their homes, stepping out into the chilled air to watch as the captured prisoners were paraded into the heart of town. Children were shoed inside, their insistence on watching the spectacle ignored by the good intentions of their sheltering parents. I remained ever close by, slipping past the watchful eyes of Imperial sentinels that lined the battlemented parapets. The base of the mountain face provided an easy point of access into the village, largely unguarded and with few obstacles save the mountain itself. I watched the events that unfolded from shadowed ground behind the back wall of a Nordic house.

"General Tulius, sir, the headsman is waiting!"

An archer upon one of the garrisons called out to his commander who rested on the back of a chestnut horse. I passed a glance at the man, an Imperial, aged features lining his stern, austere countenance. His skin was slightly darker than that of the Nord folk, as is common for those native to Cyrodiil or other southbound provinces. He wore a head of balding grey hair and a suit of brilliant leather armor embroidered with gold.

"Good," Tulius called back to the soldier, "Let's get this over with."

In front of him were two high elves on horseback, wearing black trench coats with pale yellow trimming and highlights. They were clearly Thalmor, agents of the Aldmeri Dominion. Their presence at such a time and place did not sit well with me.

The general turned his horse and began to trot towards the convoy as it parked in the village square. The two Altmer withdrew down a southern gateway. I darted between the backs of the buildings, stopping at a narrow, dead end ally between a stone tower and an inn. The mountain face stood at my back. A high ranked officer gave the order to unload the prisoners. The man in sack cloth, sitting in the back of the now still carriage, looked panicked.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked the blonde Nord beside him. An Imperial soldier began calling out the titles of those among the arrested, book and quill in hand. One by one the captives were checked off and gathered around a headsman's block.

"Why do you think?" the blonde retorted as he stepped off the cart, "End of the line." His name had been announced. He was Ralof, of Riverwood.

"No, I'm not a rebel! They can't do this!" the ragged Nord clamored as he jumped down from his seat. He was Lokir, of Roriskstead. Ralof maintained a calm demeanor, despite Lokir's consternation.

"Face your death with some courage, horse thief."

"You've got to tell them, I wasn't with you! This is a mistake!"

Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, was called last. The prisoners in matching uniform all turned to look upon their leader. His face was solemn, an expression half-hid by the gag that covered his mouth. Soon, all were marshalled to the headsman, with the general and his immediate officers standing close by. A thick, fortified tower set in stone stood near the gathering, bowmen lining the battlements. Villagers looked on from the porches of their homes. I watched in silence.

Tulius walked up to Ulfric, a dour look in his eyes.

"Ulfric Stormcloak…" he began, "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Ulfric muttered something behind his gag, seemingly in protest. The general continued.

"You started this war! Plunged Skyrim into chaos! Now the empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

A roaring cry echoed suddenly from the snow whipped face of the Throat of the World. Those at the gathering were startled, turning their heads toward the noise. It was disturbing, carrying an almost metallic ring. Even I was caught off guard; no creature known to me could bellow such a shout. One of the soldiers turned to the general.

"Sir, what was that?" he asked, concern carrying in his voice. Tulius regained his composure.

"It's nothing. Carry on," the commander responded flatly. It seemed to him this business was too important to interrupt.

One of the higher ranking officers, adorning a full set of steel Imperial armor, stepped up and saluted. She turned to greet the figure of a priestess walking toward them, clothed in a simple orange, robe garment. The woman was told to present the prisoners their last rites. The thin priestess bowed, her face partly covered by a cloth hood. She came and stood out in front of the captive Nords, extending her hands toward the sky.

"As we commend your souls to Atherius," she prayed, "blessings of the eight divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our–"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" A prisoner with short red hair and a rough, scarred face had brazenly stepped forward, cutting off the priestess's speech.

"As you wish…" the woman responded scornfully.

The red-headed Nord was dragged to the block by two of the soldiers nearby. He continued to hurl insults, spitting in the faces of the Imperials. The headsman, a brute of a man, wearing a black sack-cloth mask and sleeveless chain-mail armor, stood silent. A wicked axe, nearly as tall as he, was held up in his left hand erect to the ground. As the prisoner was knelt down upon the slab of wood, he uttered one final remark of defiance:

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

He managed a final grin before the blade of the axe came down, lodging squarely between his neck and shoulders. The man's head rolled off into a basket, as blood shot from the gaping plateau where his head used to be. The steel armored officer kicked aside his limp, headless corpse as the onlookers of the crowd shouted reproaches and praise.

"You Imperial bastards!"

"Justice!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

I could only watch as the scene unfolded. It pained me to see lives end so viciously, but I knew nothing of the circumstances behind these executions and as such would not intervene. I hissed under my breath condolences to the deceased. The officer turned to the prisoners, pointing now to Lokir.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!" she declared. The gaunt man was livid with fear, his arms and legs trembling. It looked as though he would run at any moment.

Then the roaring cry returned, rumbling once more from the cliffs. It sounded closer. The assemblage of people turned again toward the sky. That was all the distraction Lokir needed. The thief, hands bound, bolted from the crowd toward the back alleyway – where I stood – seeking escape and shelter from the archers. I quickly scuttled behind the tower to my left, teeth clenched, crouching against the wall. The Imperial officer barked out orders.

Just as Lokir had reached the dead end of mountain rock, he turned and saw me, hesitating for a moment. A confused and startled look crossed his face. Before I could speak, an arrow struck him upside the head. He crumpled to the ground no more than five feet away from me, limp as a tattered cloth.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the officer goaded.

I swore under my breath. They would send someone to retrieve Lokir's body. Worse, the archers were likely now on alert, scouting the perimeter. Going back the way I came would not conceal me as well as it did before. The thief's attempted getaway had trapped me between the tower and the mountain wall. I would have to climb the rocks to reach the outside of the village – even then, I would risk being spotted.

Curse it all… This venture was foolish, I thought to myself. I should have left the carriages alone.

Slowly, I inched my way around the circumference of the watchtower, set low, my back against the cold hard stone. Before I could act, I needed to see what the soldiers would do next. I peered out once more toward the town center.

The roar came again. I threw a glance at the distant mountains.

A winged leviathan, maybe ten feet in span, cast with serrated scales as black as shadow, dove from a sheer cliff and soared toward the town on a gust of wind. My eyes widened at the sight.

"What in Oblivion is that!?" Tulius cried, his face a picture of shock as the monster in the sky loomed toward the village of Helgen. With a beat of its wings, it lifted up into the air, before alighting upon the stone tower that stood meters away from the soldiers and captives. Archers on the roof were crushed under its weight. The ground shook as it landed.

There the awful creature sat perched. Long, glossy talons hung over the edges of the battlements. Its face was angular, reptilian, not so different from my own, with long crooked horns jetting back from its head. A thick thrashing tail hung from its rear. Razor-like teeth bore from its snarl. Its eyes were blood red, faintly glowing, inset by slit pupils as dark and inky as the rest of its hide.

Men began to stumble backward. Others drew their swords. People screamed. Before chaos erupted, a woman's cry gave name to the terror that stood before us.

"Dragon!"


	4. Arc 1 - Chapter 3

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 3_**

_Chases-The-Wind_

From the dragon's maw came a menacing shout – three words enunciated in a tongue I could not distinguish. It resonated through the air with such power that it shook the very nirn beneath our feet, sending some tumbling to the ground. The beast rose above with a mighty stroke of its wings and began to circle the town as a hackwing circles its prey. My ears still ringing, I bent my gaze aloft to see dark clouds blot the sun, forming a cyclone in the sky that whirled violently. Flares of light exploded from the turbulent haze as sweltering meteors reigned down upon the village. Stone walls from keeps and towers crumbled away while the wooden frames of homes were torn asunder and set ablaze. The screams of panicked Nords and Imperials began to cut off one by one as the dead mounted in number.

Dread shot through the very marrow of my body. This order of being was like nothing I had ever seen before. For the briefest of moments, I stood paralyzed as the world around me fell apart. Legionnaires were madly attacking the flying beast, frantic and disorganized, while General Tulius hollered orders to protect the town's people.

A fireball struck the tower above me, its explosion knocking me over. I slowly recovered myself, feeling a seep of warm blood run down my muzzle. I beheld the scene in the courtyard. Several men and women lay dead, Imperials and Stormcloaks alike, their bodies consumed by combustion, others gored. One of them, though, was still moving – dazed but very much alive. It was Ralof.

I ran out into the open, tail swaying in counted measure with my legs, rushing toward the fallen prisoner. I would not remain a spectator to this madness. I would not let him die. Coming to a halt I knelt down beside the Nord, pulling at his arm.

"Get up!" I yelled, "On your feet! Let's go!"

Ralof reeled at the sight of a clawed hand grasping him. He staggered, gawking at me, a stunned look on his face. I imagine a reptilian creature with sharp teeth and thick scales was the last thing he wanted to see at that moment. Luckily for him, this reptilian creature was on his side. Ralof looked toward the clouds above. I caught his eyes broadening, a feint glint of light reflecting in them. Snapping my own gaze skyward, I saw a meteor plunging toward us. It was coming in too fast to dodge.

I stood and shot my arm upward, palm outstretched. Pale blue illumination shimmered as a shield of pure, aetherial energy expanded over us. The ball of fire struck and deflected off the ward, shattering it into jagged fractures of fading light. Unharmed, if not somewhat shaken, I pulled Ralof up, unsheathing my knife from its scabbard. I cut loose the bindings on his wrists, frantically looking around for a place to take shelter. My sight set on the tower that had been my hiding spot moments earlier. It was damaged, but still standing with the doorway open. Ralof and I glanced at each other.

"Can you run?" I asked. He began to sprint toward the tower. Seeing my question answered, I ran close behind him. We burst through the entrance, slamming shut the wooden door of the stone garrison. A small company of Stormcloak men and women had gathered inside. Two were seriously wounded. Among those who still stood was Ulfric, ungagged and unbound. He had survived the attack so far.

"Who are you!?" one of the rebels barked at me. He had been tending to the injured, now coming forward with a dagger in his hand. Ralof seized the man's arm, restraining him.

"Control yourself, dammit! This Argonian just saved my life," Ralof exclaimed angrily. He released his grip, turning to me. "No pox of the empire would risk his hide to save a Stormcloak."

The other man grumbled and withdrew his weapon, tending once more to the wounded. I remained silent. Ralof's visage grew solemn as he stepped toward his leader.

"Jarl Ulfric," he said, "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages…" Ulfric replied, peering out of a knothole in the cobblestone wall. Without his gag, the man wore a thick goatee upon his face. His expression was grave. The tower began to shake as loose debris fell from the ceiling. The dragon roared.

Ulfric shifted away from the window and stood facing his men.

"We need to move, now!" he exclaimed.

"Does this tower lead anywhere?" I asked.

"No," answered one of the injured Nords, her voice hoarse as she grasped at her side. Her ribs were badly broken. "The wall collapsed above, blocking the stairway. The only way out is the way you came in."

"I was afraid of that…" I muttered.

"Then we clear out of here – stick to the buildings for cover!" Ralof suggested.

"And go where? Surely none of us can outrun that monster. We'd be dead before we reached the gates!"

"And if we stay here, it'll bring the whole tower down on our heads!"

There was a pause. Dust fell from the ceiling.

"Fair point," I relented, "What about the wounded? They're in no condition to move."

The man with the dagger picked up one the incapacitated, slinging her arm across his shoulder.

"We'll carry them with us," he avowed. "No one is getting left behind." Ulfric came over to another of his injured men and did the same.

"Ralof, you know Helgen better than any of us," he said. "Lead the way, we'll follow you."

"Right, I'm on it!" Ralof responded, advancing up to the door to grasp its handle. "You coming, Argonian? Might need that magic of yours, again."

"Of course," I nodded, replying coolly, "Let's tread swiftly."

The hinges of the door swung open wide as everyone in the tower filed out. The acrid scent of charring flesh filled the air, thick with dust and smoke. Piles of burning rubble littered the streets, blocking access to the road through the village. The meteor storm had subsided, but the dragon was still attacking indiscriminately. We kept our eyes on the sky as Ralof led us into the nearby inn.

"We'll have to cut through here to reach the gates," he said.

The building was badly damaged, with most of the remaining supports and framework on fire. Rooms once used for lodging ignited like tinder. Ralof and I took point, skirting ahead past broken furniture and pushing aside large beams of splintered wood. Searing heat filled the halls, dead bodies burnt black as charcoal were scattered about, and everyone but I had begun to break out in sweat.

As we cleared the path of debris, turning to give the others a go-ahead signal, a gout of fire suddenly blasted down from the roof above, sending Ralof and I reeling backwards. The dragon had made a pass over the inn, its breath of fire cutting a swath straight through the middle. Ulfric and his Stormcloaks were separated on the other side of the flames. Ralof called out to them.

"We're all alive!" Ulfric hollered, "Keep going! We'll follow you when we can!"

Ralof hesitated concernedly. I pulled at his armor.

"This inn's going to come down any second," I yelled, "We have to get clear!"

Thatched roofing began to concave as the building combusted. We dove out of the inn by another entrance and got back on the path outside. The dragon now hovered in the distance, kept airborne by the repeated flapping of its wings. To my surprise, lightning bolts were being volleyed at the monster, cast by Imperial battle mages out of view. Their strikes glanced off of its scales leaving naught a single mark or burn. Ushering another three word incantation, the dragon's shout became an incredible exhalation of flame. The cries of men and women were heard from behind the visage of blazing buildings.

"Are the gates are over this rise?" I inquired anxiously, pointing to where the dragon had been floating.

"Forget the gates," Ralof groaned "If they're not on fire, those mages are holding it. Any Imperials over there won't take kindly to seeing us." I winced. Upon hearing this, I was abruptly more aware of the fact that I had been helping an imperial captive escape capital punishment. I had become, as far as the empire concerned, a criminal accomplice.

"Then we'll find another way out," I said determinedly, though feeling inward a great deal less confident in our escape.

We made our way further, pressing against a stone wall that connected between tower garrisons to avoid the open. Nearing what appeared to be a burned out house, we came to a halt. An Imperial soldier ran through the scorched ruin, its remains a skeleton of wood, to the aid of a comrade caught under a fallen bookstand.

"Come on, we've got to go!" the legionnaire said, stooping down to lift up the wooden shelves, "Tulius gave the order. We're leaving – everyone's heading to the keep!"

I had in mind to take a chance and help the men, but before I could the dragon perched itself on the wall above Ralof and I. The creature's wings and neck loomed just over our heads. We held our collective breaths. Another shout, another burst of fire – coupled with the shrieks of the dying soldiers. Dust upheaved into the air as the dragon took flight. I looked to Ralof.

"Did you hear that?" I half asked, half coughed.

"I did," Ralof replied.

"The keep he referred to – it's the stronghold farther behind this wall, yes?"

"Must be. Everything else around here is damn well destroyed."

"The soldier said they were 'leaving.' That keep must exit somewhere!"

The dragon flew overheard. We flinched at its passing.

"You sure about that?"

"Fairly certain. Why regroup everyone into a single structure the dragon could tear down?"

Ralof seemed to catch on to my line of thinking. We needed to reach that keep.

"Alright," he started, "And I suppose you know how we're going to get there without being shot at or burned to death?"

I scouted the dragon's position. It was circling high in the air, no doubt seeking its next kill. Nearby, a portion of wall had crumbled away, blocking further passage behind the buildings. The rubble, however, looked easy to climb.

"I might," I said, "While the dragon is up in the air, we can use this collapse of rock to scale over the wall and sprint toward the keep's entrance. The soldiers out here will be too focused on that beast in the sky to bother with us." Ralof looked incredulous.

"That's quite a gamble, Argonian. Assuming we make it, what happens if the place is swarmed with Imperials?"

"We deal with them. Unless you would prefer to stay out here with the dragon?"

"Ysmir's beard… Fine. I've got no better ideas. I hope you've thought this through!"

I had. The thoughts gave me no comfort.

We waited for the dragon to attack again. Eventually, it swooped down to another wall further along, toward an Imperial archer. The dragon opened its wings, snatching up the man in its talons before rising once more. Ralof and I started our run, him going first, scaling up the crumbled stone. As we reached the top, I caught one final glimpse of the dragon before dropping off. It let loose its grip at high altitude, effortlessly sending the Imperial plummeting down to the cliffs bellow. I shuddered at the sight.

The two of us dashed at breakneck speeds toward the stronghold, built beside a lone spire of mountain rock. Smolder, fumes, and the sounds of a dying battle enveloped us. I barely paid heed to my surroundings. The adrenaline was inundating. My only thought was to retreat into keep before the dragon could cut us off. Ralof had a good start on me and reached the door first. He turned back. I noticed a look of alarm on his face. He was about to say something.

Then the dragon landed. Its impact sent quakes through the ground. I stumbled and fell, skidding across dirt and gravel. Pulling myself up, arms scraped, I saw through the clearing dust that the black beast had alit itself behind me. Our gazes locked. It seemed that of the many people the creature would kill this day, I had the honor of being next to die.


	5. Arc 1 - Chapter 4

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 4_**

_Reinhardt_

I remember the last day I spent in Cyrodiil before leaving for Skyrim. It was autumn, I think, the middle of Last Seed. 'Course, autumn and winter don't seem too different when you're as close to the southern Jerrall as Bruma. It's all snow. Heaps of it.

On that day in particular it'd piled up from constant fall through half the week. Didn't stop me, though; I made a good several mile hike through pillowy white pine forests back to the city. Like a beacon in the dusk, lit by torches and grand fire pits, its dull russet brick walls and bulwarks were a warm and pleasant sight. My work was nearly complete.

The thing about Nords in Bruma, though? They're too damn posh. Sure, they admire traditions, try to keep the old stories, and drink enough mead to put giants on their rumps. But there's no heart in any of it. Not the kind you'd see in Skyrim, anyway. Fat coin purses and Imperial guardsmen patrolling the roads at night tend to make people soft.

Ah, but be that as it may, I'd choose Bruma over any other place in Cyrodiil. The Imperial City sure ain't what it used to be. The white gold tower stands broken from the Great War, a shell of its former glory like the rest of the empire. I admire the walls of Skingrad, but not enough to tolerate the nobles and kleptocrats that dine daintily in its castle. And don't get me started on swamp fests like Layawiin or Bravil…

The watchmen let me through the front gate once they learned of my business. Some townsfolk stopped to gawk at the sight of a mean looking bounty hunter walking along their streets. I wore a thick, black fur overcoat, concealing somewhat the steel armor I had clad underneath. A burlap sack swung in my hand and a steel greatsword was slung on my back. The wind was raw and biting as the sun disappeared from the sky.

I passed by wooden homes and hearths on the lower city terrace. The people in Bruma construct their dwellings part way underground to help keep heat in during cold seasons –which was every season, really. As I climbed up the flights of stairs, slick with sleet and ice that lead toward the keep's castle, I stopped to admire some of the statues that stood along the way; memorials to heroes of the past. Some were centuries old, their chiseled features worn from years of erosion. Most were blanketed in snow like everything else.

On either side of the entrance to the great hall hung large tapestries, yellow and emblazoned with Bruma's insignia, a black eagle with upstretched wings. Within, the castle anteroom was lit by torches set against stone brick walls. A yellow, decorated carpet ran the length of the hall, straight down to the count's throne room. Columns vaulted through the open chamber ahead, lined with arched doorways leading to east and west wings.

Toward the castle barracks I made way. Inside the low ceilinged room guardsmen back from their evening rounds sat around candle lit tables, eating warm meals amidst hardy conversation. Iron chandeliers hung from the granite ceiling. There were training dummies and weapon racks scattered about, along with soft hey beds and spruce wood dresser drawers.

I singled out the captain of the guard from the barracks doorway, sitting comfortably on a stool, and waved him over. We'd done transactions like this before. As soon as the burly, black haired Nord caught sight of me and the bag I carried, he sighed before getting up from his seat. The man was on in years, but he still looked tough and spry as ever. Something about the ale he drank, maybe.

"Reinhardt, you bastard," he grumbled sarcastically, "Have you ever thought about taking a week off?"

"The thought's crossed my mind…" I said with a wide set grin.

We walked back through the atrium, turning into a small, cramped room. Papers were scrawled on desks and shelves, along with discarded ink pots and quills. Bounties, both old and new, were strewn about. I handed the captain my burlap sack.

"So who are you collecting for this time?" he asked.

"Toralf Bjornsen," I answered, scratching my beard, "'The Pillager,' as you know him. That marauder from the arson incident at Bleaker's Way. Two months ago, yeah?"

The captain loosed the string at the mouth of the bag, arching an eyebrow at the sight of the severed head that lay inside.

"He was a tough one to track down," I chuckled, "His band was holed up in one of the old Ayleid ruins. Must have been at least six or seven of them in there."

Scooping up one of the bounty letters from his desk, the captain pondered a moment, before reaching for a bag of gold septims locked inside a strongbox.

"Whatever you say," he sighed, tossing me the payment, "Here's your five hundred."

My brow furrowed as I held the purse in my hand.

"You short changing me, kinsman?" I said indignantly, "The bounty said one thousand!"

"The bounty also said 'alive,'" the man replied.

"Eh? Let me see that…"

I snatched the slip of parchment from the captain's hand. Damn it all, but wouldn't you know – he wasn't kidding. The bounty had been for The Pillager's capture.

"Huh… Alright," I grunted contently, "Five hundred's fair."

"Some people won't be too happy about this, you know," the captain chided, "They were hoping for a public execution."

"And how much longer would it have taken to bring the man in? Days? Weeks? What if he started another village fire?" I retorted, making arm gestures, "You ask me, it works out better this way. Less trouble for everyone."

"Everyone but me. I still have to file the paperwork."

"I don't hear your coin purse complaining," I laughed, walking out of the room, "Shor forbid your hand gets cramped!"

I stepped back outside the wide doors of castle Bruma, taking in the chill of the night. Aromas of late dinner meals – stews, breads, and what smelled like cooked pheasant – whiffed from chimney stalks and windows. The snow was still. My feet crunched through the stuff as I yawned, heading toward the inn on the upper terrace. Better beds there than the crap that passed for cots at the Tap and Tack. I'd slept more soundly on boulders.

It was then that I saw a man carrying a torch, running in my direction. He wore a thick set of winter garbs; you could barely see the scrawny guy beneath all those layers. He stopped his run a little too close to my face. A mail bag hung across his shoulder.

"Are you the one called Reinhardt?" the courier asked, between gasping breaths that vapored in the air.

"Yeah, that's me," I said, backing up, "You, uh, need something?"

He pulled out a letter from his bag, after some lengthy shuffling, and handed it to me.

"I was told to bring this to you," the man said, "Can't stay and chat. I've got more deliveries to make. If you'll excuse me..."

And like that, he was off. I stared at the letter, recognizing the signature at once. It was from my aunt in Skyrim. I opened the envelope and held the paper inside up to a light. She'd written the letter to ask if I could return home. The civil war was coming to a head and my uncle's health was waning – she wanted me back for protection. Even offered to pay my usual rate, bless her soul. The letter had all the glib I expected from the old woman. She and uncle raised me almost as much as my mother did.

I stuffed the paper in my pocket and continued to the inn. Of course I'd go back. A true Nord never abandons his family, especially not mine. They were good people stuck in difficult times. Not sure how long I'd stay, but at least long enough to see their needs met for the long term. My thoughts wandered to times past.

It'd been years since I last visited Helgen. I wondered how the place had changed.


	6. Arc 1 - Chapter 5

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 5_**

_Chases-The-Wind_

"Zu'u Alduin. Zok sahrot do naan ko Lein!"

The black dragon spoke to me. It's voice was vociferous and strident; a deep-set, bellowing growl. I bent to dash toward the keep, calling ahead for Ralof to clear the door. Once more the wyrm snarled.

"Nus two ni qiilaan fen kos bonaar!"

As I ran I glared over my shoulder. The dragon prepared to unleash an exhale of pyre. I pivoted backward to outstretch my arm, casting another ward. Bright cerulean light danced across the faded claw-mark scars that streaked my face. I wore a look of fury, brow drawn low and fangs bared, as though to try and match the dragon's terror with my own. I knew my spell was weak and would surely falter against the monster's fire. Yet still, I was impelled to challenge the great beast however I could, to deny it this one kill.

The dragon's dissonant, metallic roar ushered forth, fire cascading from its maw with frightening speed. Just as I cleared the entryway, the breath collided with my ward and crushed it with sheer force. The impact sent a searing shock coursing down the length of my arm. Before the fire could reach me, Ralof slammed shut the keep's entrance. I staggered, falling down to the floor, catching myself on my hands and knees. Ralof held the weight of his body against the door as the dragon's breath subsided.

Silence deadened the room. Ralof and I looked at each other, our faces beaming both elation and complete disbelief. I stifled a laugh. We were still alive.

But there was no time to revel in our triumph. A quake and tumbling of rubble from the rafters reminded us that the dragon was still just outside. Something caught Ralof's eye as I came to my feet. He rushed toward the back of the cylindrical room and knelt down by a Stormcloak's body, lying motionless beside a small table. Blood pooled near the dead man's side. The Imperials seemed to have caught him.

"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother…" Ralof lamented, lingering before he spoke again, "Looks like we're the only ones who made it this far."

He stood, facing me as I walked near. A chandelier lofted overhead cast a shadow thrice its size upon the floor. Mounted heads of deer, elk, and bears eyed us from high upon the walls with false, glossy pupils. I peered to the right at a black iron gate that had been swung open, leading to a downward bending stairwell. It showed signs of forced entry.

"Don't be so sure of that," I said, "We were not the first to come through here. There may still be others further in."

I pulled back my fur hood, ruffling the dark brown feathers that adorned my head.

"You think Ulfric and the others made it?" Ralof asked.

"Impossible to say. But they're on their own, now," I said, looking sternly at Ralof, "We can't afford to wait for them."

The Nord let out a resigning sigh.

"You don't need to tell me that. It'll take more than a dragon to kill Ulfric Stormcloak," he said, "Let's get out of here!"

We made our way through the gate and down underground. The hallway that greeted us bellow was dimly lit by metal framed torches. Cold mortar and stone confined us on all sides. I hate tight spaces. The ceiling shook and a small chunk of rock fell, slipping off of my collar before clattering on the floor. That dragon was still trying to tear down the keep.

At the time, though, my thoughts were more occupied with the Imperials. I hoped against all odds that we would meet no trouble from them. Pulling out my crossbow, I lifted a small flap atop one of the leather pouches lining my belt. I singled out a steel bolt and loaded it into the weapon. One way or another, I would be ready.

Once more the room shook, but this time violently. I could hear the sounds of rupturing wood supports above. The roof was about to collapse.

"Look out!" Ralof cried.

We barely managed to jump clear of the debris. Stone, gravel and pine woodwork cascaded, sealing the path behind us. The air became thick with dust and soil. My nictating membranes blocked the dirt from eyes as I coughed. The sound of Ralof hollering in pain rang from behind me.

I turned back to see the Nord's leg caught under a large column of rock. He was spitting enough curses to bring a sailor to blush. I ran to help lift up the rubble. Its bulk was immense – I strained to prop the stone mere inches. Somehow, though, it was enough for Ralof to wring his leg free. My muscles ached as I let the weighted heap drop.

"Son of a…" Ralof swore as he spat on the ground, his face grimaced, "Damn dragon won't give up!"

I took a closer look at the wound. Something must have prevented the full weight of the rock from crushing Ralof's leg; it was not as badly broken as I feared. There were two, maybe three fractures. His pant leg and skin were badly torn, streaked with grime and blood.

"Stay still," I said, moving closer to hold my hands over the leg, "I can stop the bleeding and ease your pain."

Sallow light shone over the abrasion as it slowly began to heal. I could feel wholeness restore as my spell weaved threads of flesh back together. The recuperation completed after a few minutes. Ralof looked noticeably more placid.

"That… That was incredible!" he exclaimed, "I feel much better!"

His contorted expression returned as he tried to stand. I motioned for him to stay down.

"I did not completely fix your leg. The bone still needs to mend on its own," I said, "I've prevented any festering, at least. It'll give us the time we need to reach safety."

I bent to prop Ralof up on my shoulder when a voice cut in from further down the dark corridor.

"Who's there? Show yourselves!"

The figures of two men were moving toward us. As they neared torch light, the shapes of their legion uniforms came into view. My muscles tensed as I cursed silently. Pulling back, I stood and took aim with my crossbow.

"Stop where you are!" I shouted, "Move and I put a bolt between your eyes!"

The men froze in place. One held up his hands yieldingly. He was a Nord who wore a mat of ear-length, brown hair and a clean shaven face.

"Easy now," he said, "We don't want to hurt you…"

"I've no concern for myself," I hissed.

"Hadvar, he's the Argonian I saw earlier," the other soldier muttered, "The one helping the Stormcloaks! Look!"

He pointed to Ralof lying on the ground.

"I take no sides in this affair. My actions are my own," I said, lowering my weapon slightly, "I saved this man because his life was in danger."

"And that's supposed to get you a reprieve?" the soldier snapped, "You're aiding an enemy of the empire!"

"Wait a second," Hadvar spoke as he waved his companion aside, straining to see the incapacitated Stormcloak, "It can't be… Ralof? Is that you?"

"Nice to see you too, dog…" Ralof jeered.

"You damn traitor, you're still alive!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time."

The other Imperial drew his sword.

"We'll see about that," he exclaimed.

"Enough! All of you!" I rebuked, "Have you forgotten that a dragon is attacking the town!? This keep will become our tomb if we waste time fighting each other!"

The ceiling shook again. Hadvar seemed concerned, but his companion refused to back down.

"Stay out of this, lizard!" he demanded, "The Stormcloak is ours. Leave and we'll act like this never happened."

"This man is no threat to you in his condition," I spoke crossly, "I'll not allow you to kill him so pitilessly! Set aside your hatred this once – has there not been enough death this day?"

Hadvard seemed to quell at my words. He interjected.

"Forget about them, we need to get back to the others. They won't wait for us."

"What happens if the captain finds out we let a rebel escape?" his cohort contested, "It'll be _our_ heads on the chopping block, not theirs!"

"There will be no need for such measures if your head has a steel shaft lodged though it," I scoffed, raising my crossbow to aim once more. Tension filled the room, slowly swelling like a bad wound. We all felt it. I did not want to act on my threats, but as the moment became dire, it seemed I would soon have to.

Inconsequential, either way – I never got the chance. Something worse happened.

There was a loud snap. A metal hook holding back the drawstring on my crossbow mangled free, pitching off into the air. The repairs I made in the mountains had not been thorough enough – my weapon was more damaged than I realized. The loaded bolt misfired, careening past the legionnaires by a wide margin.

"Xhuth!" I swore, reeling in surprise.

The Imperial soldier, sword drawn, seized the moment and rushed forward. Hadvar unavailingly shouted for him to stop. It all happened quickly. Before I knew it, the man's steel blade was coming toward me in a diagonal slash, aimed squarely at my clavicle.

Poor choice of move. He would have done better to try for a thrust.

I pulled up my crossbow and blocked the blow. The soldier's sword buried into the wooden stock. Swerving my weapon to the side, I drew away the blade. He managed to wrench it free, but all too late. By the time he pulled back for another strike, I tore at the man's celiac plexus with an upward swipe of my claws. He cried out, staggering backwards. I drew my knife, shifting into a fighting stance.

"If you value your life," I growled, "yield and I will still show mercy."

My opponent recovered himself. He followed with a series of slashing blows. Not one could connect; I sifted through his strikes like current of water. The man was fuming. He went for a sickeningly fast stab. I sidestepped, spinning counter-clockwise around the soldier's body to the back, before striking with a sharp elbow thrust to his head. He stumbled forward, surprisingly still conscious.

"Give up!" I yelled.

The Imperial spun around to cleave my midsection, arced in a full semicircle swing. I ducked. This would only end one way. Mustering all of the strength I had, I rose and plunged my knife between the soldier's ribs. His eyes became wide with shock. I twisted the small blade's hilt before drawing it free. The man dropped his sword, clutching the puncture wound in his chest. I threw him hard to the ground.

A downward stomp of my boot broke his neck. Better to kill the man quickly than let him suffer. I let out a deep exhale before directing a doleful glower at Hadvar. Blood dripped from the tip of my blade.

"We're leaving. Please, for you sake," I implored, "Do not try and stop us."

The Nord legionnaire took a single step back. He was outmatched and he knew it. There would not be another fight. I was grateful for this; no pleasure had been taken in slaying his comrade.

"Fine," Hadvar said with ire, "I hope that dragon takes you to all to Sovngarde…"

He turned to retreat back down the corridor. I sighed. It seemed that I had made an unwanted enemy. I picked up my broken crossbow before walking over to Ralof.

"We'll need to move more slowly, now," I said, "Give the Imperials time to escape ahead of us."

Once more a quake rumbled through the rocks.

"Not too slowly, I hope…" Ralof replied, pausing for a moment between sentences, "Those were some impressive moves. You know how to handle yourself in a fight."

"I'd have rather not fought at all," I mulled, "But what's done it done. We can only move forward…"

"No shame in defending yourself, friend. It was a good kill."

Propping Ralof's arm over my shoulder, I held both our weights up as we began to slowly hobble through the dark recesses of the keep.

"I knew that man," Ralof said, staring off at nothing, "Hadvar. We grew up together in Riverwood."

"The two of you were friends?" I asked.

"If it's all the same, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Fair enough."

Ralof chuckled a bit to himself, looking about the room.

"Funny… When I was a boy, Imperial walls and soldiers used to make me feel so safe…"

The two of us kept onward, choosing silence for the rest of the way. My thoughts would not settle. The consequences of my actions would be far prolonged, I was sure. Would the Imperials seek me out? What would become of the man I spared? Worst and best case scenarios played out through my mind. I had unwittingly become involved in events I desired no part with. My own fault, I suppose.

After all of the effort I gave to crossing the border, Skyrim was suddenly the last place I wanted to be in.


	7. Arc 1 - Chapter 6

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 6_**

_Reinhardt _

A few days after receiving my aunt's letter, I managed to travel through the Pale Pass, a snakelike, winding path that carves through the Jerall into Skyrim. Aside from the harsh cold weather, it was a simple journey.

…For the most part. There was that bit where I got lost. Must've taken a wrong turn somewhere. I had hiked for nearly a full cycle by then, not including a brief rest. But instead of meeting the thick, verdant forests of Falkreath Hold, I fumbled through more stone and sleet, going deeper into the mountains.

After about a quarter mile off from the proper trail, I thought to turn back around and retrace my steps, but I noticed something. A hearth fire was burning in the distant bluffs, settled somewhere near a cozy looking wood cabin. You could barely see it past the rocks. I had to shield my eyes against glaringly bright snow that reflected the noontime sun. There wasn't a clear path up the cliff side, but my chill bitten hands and feet – not to mention a mildly growling stomach – urged me to find some way toward the lodge.

I trekked upward across the mountain's face, careful to watch my step; slopes were steep and the way down looked pretty long. Trudging past stray confer trees and a few naked snowberry bushes, I came to a peak overlooking the cabin. Seeing it up close, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. The place wasn't much to look at. Supports were built with sturdy log beams, but the walls were made of thin wood, some boards stacked unevenly, cracks filled in with a kind of sappy adhesive. There was a stone circle fire pit nearby, with a rusted iron cooking pot and some funny looking utensils. The cabin didn't have a door, just a deerskin hide draped over the entrance. Everything seemed hastily cobbled together.

At least the view was nice. Looking out, you could see pine forests flowing down into a massive grand valley, dipping out toward rivers, lakes, and farther ranges. Until then, I hadn't realized how close to Falkreath I really was. Figured I'd be there in a day's time if I could find a way down the mountain side.

But first, the cabin. I slid down the snow covered crest and started shuffling over to the fire, nearly burned up. Didn't look like anybody was home. That was of course before I felt an arrow fly past my ear. It clanked off of a boulder behind me, disappearing into the deep snow.

"Next shot I won't miss," a woman yelled from some ways off.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I exclaimed, holding up my hands in surrender, "Take it easy! I'm friendly!"

The woman walked closer to me. Her fur lined coat and winter hood were speckled with snowflakes, while a couple of freshly killed rabbits hung limp on her belt. She held a pine-wood hunting bow, aimed and drawn in my direction.

"A girl can't be too careful," she chided, "There are a lot of people out here who'll try to rob you or take your head off."

"Hey, you're the one trying to take off _my _head, here," I snorted, "This how you treat all your visitors?"

"The ones who come armed, yes," the woman responded, briefly dipping the tip of her arrow to the ground, "Drop your sword."

"If it means you'll quit pointing that thing at me…"

As I reached back to grab the scabbard of my weapon, something struck me. The woman was near enough now to see clearly. Her face was set with high cheek bones, a long, thin nose bridge, and blond hair. She seemed familiar. I stopped to look more closely.

"I said drop your sword," the woman repeated.

"…Do I know you?" I asked.

"If you think you can talk your way out of this–"

"Shor's bones… I do know you!" I exclaimed, "Angi!? Why are you all the way out here in the mountains?"

Alarm crossed the woman's face.

"How do you know my name?"

"Oh come now, are you dense? You don't recognize me?" I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, "It can't have been that long…"

"Stop talking and _drop your sword_!"

"Seriously, you don't remember who I am? Angi, we–"

"I'm counting to three…"

"Wait, wait!" I stammered, trying to think of a way I could help jog her memory, "Err… Hold on! Try to picture me without my beard!"

I'm still not sure why that was the first thing I thought to say. But it worked. Angi's face began to soften.

"…Reinhardt?"

I slumped and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Yes… Now would you please stop threatening to kill me? We didn't part on terms _that_ poor, did we?"

Angi loosed the string on her bow, returning the arrow she'd aimed at my head to its quiver.

"What are you doing here?" she inquired.

"I think I asked you that first."

She reached for her arrow and drew it again.

"I was hiking!" I blurted, "I saw the cabin and came over! Dammit, will you let up!?"

Angi relaxed, holstering her weapon.

"So you're back now?" she said, "Decided you'd had enough fun with those cushy Imperials in Cyrodiil?"

"Eh, you know… Things happen. Times change," I shrugged, gesturing toward the cabin, "Looks like you've had no kind favors."

"Hmph. That's the best answer I can expect from you, isn't it?" Angi sighed, shaking her head.

"Sorry," I said, smiling, "If it means I can have something to eat, I'll stop being a pain in the ass."

Angi folded her arms, face drawn in a half scowl that betrayed a slight smirk.

"That might be difficult, considering you. But I'll take your offer."

* * *

We sat on wood chairs near the fire, mine with an uneven leg that teetered the seat every time I shifted weight. Angi was across from me, her bow rested on her lap. The fire was built up now, melting away snow near the pit, exposing a ring of dirt and dead grass beneath. I eagerly took my first bite of the roasted rabbit Angi had been kind enough to prepare for me.

"Talos have mercy, this is disgusting," I grumbled, forcing down the burnt-tasting meat.

"I thought you said you were going to stop being an ass," Angi replied.

"Oops…" I said, taking another bite.

Angi rolled her eyes.

"Forget it. You haven't changed at all."

I stopped for a moment, setting my gaze intently on the woman.

"Unlike you, huh?" I remarked, my tone shifting to concern, "Angi, why are you out here like this? What made you decide to leave Helgen?"

"I came out here a couple of years ago. Couldn't stand to be around anyone in the village anymore."

"Why?"

Angi took her time before speaking again. Her gaze tilted down toward the flames.

"I'd lost my family," Angi said, "and they all felt pity for me. But I didn't want them to. It was my problem, not theirs."

Her voice carried a hint of anger, but was otherwise emotionless. I sat up straighter.

"…What?" I exclaimed softly, "What do you mean 'lost your family?'"

"You know damn well what I mean. They're dead, Reinhardt."

I slumped back in my seat. Of all the things to happen while I was away. I'd known Angi's family since I was a boy; her parents, her older brother...

"What's it to you, anyway?" she snapped, "I'm surprised you even care. We heard nothing from you for years."

"Don't you go putting this on me!" I countered, "Your family was good to mine. Right by me, anyway. Why wouldn't I care?"

There was a pause. Neither of us talked for a while. I stared at Angi.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," I finally said.

"No. Don't be like them," she replied angrily, "Don't be sorry for me."

"Fine. I won't. Just tell me how it happened."

Angi looked away absent-mindedly at the cliffs.

"There's nothing to tell. They were murdered. End of story."

"By who, Angi? Who did this?"

Her face showed a sad grin, as though the very thought of her family's fate was something absurd, even laughable.

"Two Imperial drunks who thought they were above the law," she said.

I furrowed at that. Damn pox of the empire. Was there no end to the trouble they caused?

"Where are they now?" I growled, "I'll gladly kill them myself."

"Already did," Angi replied, strumming the drawstring on her bow, "Part of the reason I'm living out here now…"

My expression turned to surprise. I hadn't expected that answer.

"Really?"

She nodded.

"Thanks for offering, though."

I sat silently, continuing to eat my now cold rabbit. That's the thing about us Nords. We tend to take care of our problems more straightforwardly than most. I had to admire Angi's resolution. Reminded me why I spent all those years fancying her.

"I'd have been happy to hear that anyone killed those Imperial dogs," I said, grinning involuntarily, "I'm even happier to hear you did. High time some things started getting set right in the world."

"It's what you would have done," Angi replied, "You always took your problems head on. No regrets or excuses…"

"Ha! You're not trying to paint a romantic picture of me, are you?" I chuckled "I think you're forgetting the blisters and broken bones I collected duly on a regular basis."

"Those things don't make you wrong, Reinhardt," Angi said, "They make you an oaf."

She stood up, having finished her meal, and tossed me her bow. I caught it with questionable grace.

"Now, if we're done with this," Angi said, "I'm suddenly curious to see if you've been practicing."

Oh no, I thought. Of all the things to bring up again…

"Practicing?" I griped, "Come on Angi, I haven't used a bow in years!"

"I'll take that as a 'no' then," she spoke matter-of-factly, "I've set up some targets near the road. We'll shoot there."

"You threaten to take my life, serve me your God awful cooking, and now we have to do archery? By Shor, you still get off on watching me squirm…"

"You're the one who insisted on coming here and digging up old memories."

She dropped a quiver of iron tipped arrows at my feet and started walking. Angi and her brother always used to take me with them on hunting trips. I was a decent wood cutter, maybe, but a worthless marksman. Couldn't use bows worth a damn. Still, they'd go on inviting me, saying I'd need the skill to hunt for myself someday. So I got to practice.

And I shot poorly. A lot.

'Course, I never said it then, but I always thanked them for it. Those were simpler times. It felt good to tag along.

Slinging the arrow case over my shoulder, I followed Angi down the road.

* * *

**Original Posting: profiles/blogs/dragon-of-the-east-chapter-6**


	8. Arc 1 - Chapter 7

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 7_**

_Chases-The-Wind_

A lake widened in the distance, set with beautiful backdrop mountain peaks. The sun settled high at a slight tilt above a partly clouded sky. Ralof and I made our way toward the town of Riverwood along a forest path, slowly as I still supported the limping Nord. We conversed along the way. Not a patch of snow lay in sight, save for far behind. Green trees, cool grass, and brushes thick with plant life presided instead. The air smelled thick with pine.

"You know I'm going to ask you eventually…" Ralof said.

"I'm not carrying you," I replied. Ralof's expression scrunched at that.

"What makes you think I'd let you?" he mocked, "That wasn't my question, anyway."

"Then ask. I may answer."

"What were you doing in Helgen? Why go through all that trouble to save me?"

"That's two questions…"

Ralof grumbled. "Shor's bones, if you don't want to answer, just say so."

I paused, thinking how best to frame my response. A fresh breeze blew through the air, carrying with it scattered dust and needles from trees. The keep in Helgen had led to an exit – a natural cave formation, connected to the lower dungeons that lay within. By the time we had made our way out, the dragon was nowhere to be found. The only sounds that lingered were of the wind and surrounding fauna, along with the faintest, distant crackling of wood fueled fires. Footprints in snow clustered near and away the mouth of the cave revealed that others had escaped not long before us, though by no means in large numbers.

Of the dozens gathered in Helgen, only a handful, including Ralof and I, must have survived. Or at least, came out the same way as we had.

"Forgive my banter," I said, "I cannot say I have a good reason for coming to Helgen. I saw the carriages transporting you back near the mountains. It was a curious sight, so I followed."

"You were following us?" Ralof responded skeptically, "We never saw you… "

"I am good at keeping unseen when I so choose," I said, debatably masking a hint of pride. I decided to leave out the fact that I had watched the beginnings of their executions.

"That's… Uh…I'm not sure what to say to that."

"Best to say nothing, then. As for why I saved you…"

I stopped to scratch my scars. They were itching.

"…You already know. The words I spoke to the Imperials soldiers were true. You were in danger. It wouldn't have felt right to stand idly by."

"Really? That's it?"

"That's it," I repeated, truthfully. Traveling often crossed my path with those who needed aid or protection. I would always try to do what I could. It was how I chose to live my life after leaving Black Marsh. In all things, I sought altruism; at least, insofar as I could.

"Huh… That right?" Ralof mumbled, soaking in my words, "Well, can't say I'm not happy you were there. If you hadn't been, I'd be crossing the bridge to Sovngarde right now."

"Indeed," I muttered, "I only hope your sister is as hospitable as you claim she is. Your leg will need a place to rest soon."

"No worries there, friend. I'm sure she'll help us out. She's probably watching her mill workers right now. We'll see the town just down the road. "

On we went, descending a twisted slope that straightened into a stone studded pathway, along White River – cliffs across the water to our left, forest on our right. Patches of mountain flowers and weeds lined the edge of the road, soil beneath them sprayed with mist from the swift rapids that rushed through wet, scattered rocks. Salmon jumped briskly upstream, while dragonflies hummed and glistened in the light. I would have given almost anything at that moment to drop Ralof and the rest of my gear to go and swim. The river looked achingly pleasant.

Further along, true to the Nord's word, a village appeared. It's make was similar to Helgen's, with lodgings of stone and thatch. The river split along a small landmass, one arm stretching away from the town and another passing through like a gully. A large water wheel churned slowly from the flow of the inner stream, supplying hydropower to a sawmill on the river island, stitched to the riverside with wooden bridges. Each home had its own small garden, growing fresh crops ripe for harvest. Smoke rose from a canopied blacksmith's forge. Sounds of hammering metal, wood cutting, dogs barking, and children playing came into earshot.

I took in the whole of the place. To my eyes, it was a far more tranquil sight than the rigid bulwarks of Helgen. Riverwood lent to itself a sort of calming quality, a homeliness that one seldom sees, save for within such nature nestled spots.

All I could picture was the dragon burning it down. The thought left chills.

Nobody noticed our arrival at first. As we passed under the town gateway, Ralof caught sight of his sister near the mill. She was speaking to a wood elf who carried a pile of split lumber in his arms. The woman wore a long skirted set of clothes, dyed a strange, pale cyan and covered in dirt near the lower hem. She had a set of workman's gloves and kept the sides of her yellow hair braided back.

"Gerdur!" Ralof called out.

Turning her head toward a familiar voice, the woman saw us and rushed over. We were a sorry sight, still covered in dirt, grime, and dried blood.

"Brother!" Gerdur exclaimed, alarmed upon noticing Ralof's limp, "Mara's mercy, what happened to you!?"

She came close enough for me to pass Ralof over to her. She took her brother's arm and held him up while I rubbed my shoulder.

"Gerdur, I–" Ralof managed to say.

"Is it safe for you to be here?" his sister interrupted, "We'd heard Ulfric had been captured…"

"Gerdur, I'm fine!" Ralof insisted, raising his voice, "At least now I will be."

"What's going on? And who is this…?"

The woman trailed off, looking at me with puzzled confusion. It sounded as though she meant to continue speaking. Or call me something. I was not sure which.

"Don't worry. He's a friend," Ralof said, grinning at me, "I owe him my life, in fact."

I tried to smile in turn. Though I ought to mention, an Argonian's smile is not so straightforwardly apparent to men or mer. For all I know, it might have looked like a snarl. At least if it did, no one seemed to be bothered.

"Is there some place we can talk?" Ralof asked his sister.

"You should rest first," I said, "Your leg is swelling up badly."

"No," Ralof contested, turning to Gurder, "This is too important. I need to say what's happened – and I don't have to stand to do that."

Passing a glance at the woman, my silent expression gave credence to Ralof's words. She would certainly need to hear of Helgen's fate. Either way, it seemed I would not be able to talk the Stormcloak down.

"Alright," his sister said, "Come. This way."

The three of us crossed over the river bridge. To our right, a wooden ramp lead up to the sawmill. A brawny looking Nord in a dirty wool shirt was busy siccing his cant hook into a massive pine log, lifting it onto a conveyor that led toward the mill's whipsaw.

"Hod!" Gurder hollered to the man, "Come here a minute! I need your help with something."

"What is it woman?" he replied, still engrossed on his work, "Embry drunk on the job again?"

"Hod, just come here," Gurder insisted, her voice hinting all seriousness.

The man, her husband, came over to the rope hand railing along the mill's edge. His platinum hair was cropped back in a ponytail; while on his face lay a thick, bushy mustache. He quickly saw what the fuss was about.

"Ralof!" Hod exclaimed, "What are you doing here!?"

Ralof looked up to his in-law, motioning his head toward the other end of the river island, where we were heading.

"Ah…I'll be right down!" Hod stammered as he made for the ramp.

Gurder helped rest her brother onto a large tree stump to sit. He propped his bad leg forward, brushing aside ants that scurried along the decrepit wood. A steady stream of runoff trickled and splashed down the scarp of a mountain base further behind. I stood in the shadow of a spruce tree, arms folded, transfixed for a moment on the sun's reflection, captured in the river's diffracting ebb and flow.

"Ralof, what's going on?" Hod asked as he walked over, "You look pretty well done in."

"I feel done in," Ralof sighed, "Can't remember when I last slept…"

Before the Nord could speak further, a young boy ran toward our gathering. His hair hinted a common ancestry to Hod. A mangy looking dog followed in tow.

"Uncle Ralof, you're here!" he shouted excitedly, "Can I see your axe? You promised you would–"

The young one's attention quickly shifted to the sight of a strange, red-scaled stranger standing over in the shade of a tree. I speak of myself, of course. Judging from his look of curious bewilderment, I presumed that the boy had never seen an Argonian before. Not unlikely, considering how few of my kin would bother to travel in this cold northern land.

"Woah…" was all he managed to say. I could not help but chuckle in response.

"Am I such an odd sight to you?" I said, "Or do you always gawk at strangers?"

He didn't respond. His eyes were transfixed on something, moving slightly back and forth. I think he was watching my tail sway.

"Frodnar, this is no time for your games," Gurder injected, "Your uncle and I need to talk. Go run along."

"Aw, momma…" the boy whimpered, "I want to stay with uncle Ralof!"

"Hey, we'll have plenty of time to catch up," Ralof spoke to his nephew, "But I need you to do something for me..."

He motioned Frodnar to come closer, speaking in hushed tones.

"Go to the south gate and watch the road," Ralof said, "The Imperials are out there looking for me! I need you to make sure they don't sneak up on us. If you see the red of their leather, run straight back here and warn me."

The tired looking Stormcloak sat up straighter.

"Well? Can you do that?"

"I'll do it!" the lad yipped with renewed excitement, "Don't worry uncle Ralof, I won't let those Imperials get past me!"

Frodnar ran off to perform his new task. Gurder, on the other hand, looked less than pleased.

"The Imperials are after you?" she asked, even more concerned.

"Don't know for sure, but I doubt it," Ralof shrugged, "It's a long story. Where to start…?"

After a brief moment of thought, Ralof began to recount his tale. New information was gleamed, while other deductions were confirmed – Skyrim was in the midst of great conflict. A civil war raged between two factions: the Imperials, loyalists to the southern Cyrodiilic Empire, of which Skyrim remained a part of; and the Stormcloak rebels, led under the banner of Ulfric Stormcloak, who sought independence from the Empire's regime.

Ralof had been traveling with Ulfric some days ago, along with a band of body guards – the other captives I encountered. They were traveling to a place called Darkwater Crossing, somewhere in Skyrim's eastern region. The Imperials ambushed them along the way, forcing their surrender, and brought them to Helgen.

"I thought it was all over…" Ralof muttered, "Had us lined up to headsman's block and ready to start chopping."

"The cowards!" Gurder spat.

"They wouldn't dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people! All of Skyrim would've seen the truth then!"

"So what happened?" Hod prodded.

There was a pause.

"A dragon attacked," Ralof said with a stern frown.

The mood of the conversation swung at once. Expressions turned to incredulity and apprehension.

"You don't mean a real, live…?" Gurder trailed away.

"I can hardly believe it myself," Ralof exclaimed, "And I was there!"

"A dragon… By the Gods," Hod spoke, his voice rising in fervor, "Tell us, what was it like? As big as a house?"

"Bigger," I replied, speaking for the first time since Ralof started his narration, "The beast had to have been at least three meters in span. It's scales were black as night, and it flew with the grace of a hawk."

"Well I'll be," Hod murmured, his eyes wide, "That'd be a sight to see!"

"Pray that you never see it, lest you find yourself humbled…" I muttered.

"How did you escape?" Gurder asked her brother.

"Now there's a tale," Ralof laughed sadly to himself, "As crazy as it sounds, I'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion I managed to slip away."

He turned in my direction.

"With the help of this scaleback, of course. I owe him as much as the dragon. Maybe more."

Ralof went on to detail our flee from Helgen, omitting no details. By the end, Gurder and Hod lent their gazes to me.

"I don't know why you acted to save my brother… But I thank you for it," Gurder spoke warmly, hinting a newfound respect, "Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine."

I nodded in response.

"Your kind words are appreciated," I said, "But I fear your brother is not yet safe. None of us are."

My face hung a troubled glare.

"That dragon still flies. If it comes to this village…"

"He's right," Hod exclaimed, "We're completely defenseless! The Jarl has his entire guard rallied at Whiterun."

"Then we need to get word to Balgruuf to send whatever soldiers he can," Gurder responded, "The Jarl needs to know there's a dragon on the loose."

She pondered a moment, exchanging concerned looks with her brother. This woman suddenly had many burdens to deal with. I felt the weight of her worry, as though it were mine. In time, she turned to me, speaking earnestly.

"None of us can make the trip. We've enough to take care of here as it is. After everything you've been through, I hate to ask–"

"Then don't trouble yourself," I interrupted, unfolding my arms as I attempting another smile, "Just tell me where to go."


	9. Arc 1 - Chapter 8

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 8_**

_Dar-Meena_

Sometimes I wonder how I get talked into half the things I do. Traveling to Riften was Lisaa's idea. She, Ertius, and I all agreed – anything was worth leaving behind the sorry troupe we'd banded with in Cheydinhal. Hard to believe they actually called themselves "professionals." Their idea of a risky heist was snatching some old woman's heirloom and selling it for what came to two days' worth of meals. I'd seen some pretty pathetic lots, but they set a new standard. All the marks they went after were poor; not by choice, mind you, they just couldn't do any better.

I would've rather taken the gallows' noose than kept with those fools, making targets of inn keepers and stable hands…

After leaving, we could've gone anywhere we wanted to. Valenwood, High Rock, maybe even Elsweyr. But no. We went to Skyrim. The coldest province in all of Tamriel.

At least the Rift wasn't quite as wintery a hold as the others. The trees there actually showed signs of autumn with their foliage. They lined the sides of the road we traveled in bright fiery colors; scarlet, beige, and auburn, with occasional green pine needles. The wind was subtle under an unclouded sun in the afternoon. There were bee nests coated in wax hanging from birch trees, bird nests in ferns or old fallen trunks, and floral life springing from all sorts of places, even where leaves were thick on the ground. It was very beautiful. Still cold, though... Not to mention filled with bears.

Ertius lost his horse to one. Sort of. It's leg had been broken first. He rode it too hard through the thick of the forest, chasing after an elk he insisted on catching for dinner. Probably misstepped a runoff or got the horse's foot caught in a hole. He never did say exactly how it happened, just that he saw the bear very close by after he got thrown from his mount. I was unpleasantly reminded that bears are meat eaters when I went back to find the mare myself. Wasn't much left of the poor thing.

Now he and Lisaa were riding double on a tired looking paint horse. Ertius seemed to enjoy himself with it. I still don't know why Lisaa insisted on bringing that stupid, straw-haired Bretton along. I never liked him. He was always too quick to act on impulse – the kind of thing that gets thieves killed.

We'd just passed a village called Ivarstead not long ago when we saw a column of smoke in the distance. Columns, I should say. It looked like several fires had been lit. A traveling band of caravans, maybe? Wasn't a forest fire; the flames weren't big enough. It was right down the path, so we would see it one way or another.

"How many do you think there are?" Ertius asked, "Seven? Eight?"

"We don't even know if there _is_ anyone down there," Lisaa replied, brushing back her long, brown hair, "All we can see is the smoke."

"Oh come on, there must be people! Why else would the fires be so close to the road?"

"There could be any number of reasons."

"Hey, all I'm saying is, if there _are _people then we can stop by for a bit and chat. Maybe get our supplies restocked in the process..."

He meant steal from them.

"Are you crazy? We could never get away with that," Lisaa protested, "Besides, if there are as many as you think, we'd be outnumbered if they spotted us."

"Ah, what's the fun in being a thief if there's no challenge? I thought Nords were supposed to be fearless," Ertius quipped, looking to me, "What do you think, Dar?"

I shifted in my saddle, tail slung over the side. The sun heated my jet-black scales, making them warm to the touch.

"I think you should both keep your mouths shut," I snapped, eyes facing forward, "Unless you want someone to hear us."

They ended their conversation. We weren't very far from the fires by then and our voices were carrying. I had hoped at least Lisaa would've thought about that. I sighed. She was more tolerable than Ertius – had even been helpful a few times back in Cyrodiil – but that was it. We didn't really see eye to eye. The Nord had a contact in the Riften Thieves' Guild, so she decided to try her luck there after leaving Cheydinhal. Wanted me and the Breton along for mutual benefit. Strength in numbers, she said.

Bullshit. Lisaa didn't have the skill or talent to survive alone. That's the only reason she brought us. I liked the idea of joining a guild, so I played along, but I wouldn't let her or Ertius slow me down.

A bird flew high overhead as our fabric and leather clothes blew gently in a sudden breeze. Bags and luggage were draped over our horses and on our backs. We had packed enough for half the trip, resupplying on the way. Winter garments were heavy to carry around when we weren't using them. I had to pack extra. Argonians don't like acclimatizing, especially if the climate is cold. Though that might just be me…

The road bent sharply up toward a river. There the fires came into view.

Lisaa managed to stifle a scream.

We halted our horses. Further up the path, an overturned carriage lay sprawled on its side, carried goods and contents spilled across the ground. Bodies of men, women, and horses were strewn about. Most were consumed by fire. The rest were torn apart. Mutilated. Blood and gore was plastered along the stone pave way, even up on some of the nearby trees. It tinged everything in a caked, dark maroon. I held my hand up to my snout. There were so many confusing scents; noxious sulfur, something like burnt liver, and even a musky sweetness. I felt my stomach rise into my throat.

"…Shit…" Ertius muttered as he dismounted.

I couldn't speak. Words failed me.

"Gods… I never would have thought…" Lisaa trailed off, almost in a whisper, "How did this happen?"

"You think it was magic?" Ertius pondered, "Wizards could have started the fires."

"But the bodies… Why are they ripped into pieces like that? What wizard does this?"

Ertius started walking toward the carriage.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Lisaa asked.

"Checking it out," the Breton replied, "What does it look like?"

She seemed worried, but Lisaa didn't say anything in protest. I rode up beside her. My voice had finally come back.

"We shouldn't be here," I said softly.

Whatever had done this could easily do the same to us, if it was still around. I wanted to leave. Badly.

"Looks like the carriage was carting general goods. Might've been a caravan after all," Ertius said, raising his voice for us to hear, "A lot of cargo is still intact."

"Be quiet!" Lissa snapped, "Get back here, Ertius! We're not staying to snoop around!"

"I want to know what happened here," he said, annoyed, "Just give me a couple minutes…"

The Breton continued to ignore Lisaa's pleas. I gripped the reins on my horse tightly, looking around the forest. Nothing moved. All I could see were leaves rustling in the trees. Again a bird flew through the clouds high above in circles. I stared at it. The thing started gliding lower to the ground, almost in a straight dive. It was moving fast. Toward us.

It wasn't a bird.

"What is that!?" I cried, transfixed on the sky. The others looked up.

Why I asked such a stupid question, I don't know. It didn't matter what the creature was. Anyone could see it was about to kill us. On closer view, the thing was massive. It's wings spanned wide, body covered in a hide of thick, brownish-green scales. Ertius started running back. He wasn't nearly quick enough.

The beast flew over, fire exploding from its mouth as it passed, missing Lissa and I by a meter or two. My horse bucked back in fear of the blaze, throwing me off before bolting away. I landed hard, feeling the wind knock out of me. Ertius was hollering, while the sight of him writhing in flames captured the corner of my eye. Looking back, I saw the monster make a banking turn. It glided just barely above the trees. Branches swayed in the tailwind of its wings. How could something so big fly so fast?

Lisaa's horse lunged into a full gallop, almost trampling me. I watched her ride away into the forest. The creature set its sights on the Nord, correcting its flight before landing dead in front of her. More screaming. As I got up, I watched the monster rise on its hind and flex its massive jaw, snapping down toward the horse and rider. Clenching her in its maw, the thing shook Lisaa back and forth like a dog would its freshly caught rabbit, before tossing her lifeless body against a rock. Another breath of fire torched what remained of her mare.

The same word shrieked inside my head over and over: _run_.

I tried to put as much distance between me and the giant lizard as possible, before it rose again into the air. But if Lisaa couldn't outride it, how was I supposed to outrun it? There was nowhere to go. Fighting back the panic that swelled over me, I tore passed the remains of the monster's previous victims. Trees, rocks, and bushes burnt with embers were all around me. The heat was drying my scales. I saw the river beyond the road.

That was when my thoughts focused. _The river._ If I could get deep enough, the creature wouldn't be able to reach me. Swimming away would be easy. I wouldn't have to come up for air…

Thinking to look back, just in time, I saw a blaze of orange hurling straight in my direction. It was blisteringly hot. I jumped out of the way as the monster made another pass, but not before I felt a searing pain in my shoulder. Springing back up from the road, I yelped as I clutched my right arm. It felt very warm.

I ignored the pain, going on nothing but pure adrenaline, rushing toward water – toward safety. The beast banked again, trying to beat me before I could reach the river. It was a contest. A mad race. Cat and mouse.

At least this time, the mouse won.

That thing must have been scant meters away when I finally felt the cold shock of water against my skin. With a beat of my legs and tail, I pushed off into the stream with speed I'd have never guessed I had. My shadow cast over the river floor as red and yellow light danced along the surface above. It looked like a muddy sunset, filtering through the grimy deep. I caught my breath.

The water was freezing, but it soothed my shoulder. I wasted no time waiting around. I began to swim up river. To where, I didn't give a damn. _Anyplace_ would be a step up from that monster's company.

I make light of all this now, of course, but… Back then…

It didn't seem real. None of it did. I was swimming for my life, in complete terror. I half expected that thing to dive into the water at any moment and snatch me up like a bird of prey catching a hapless fish. But it didn't. It felt like an hour – a sick, maddening hour – had passed before it hit me: I escaped. I was alive.

And I was alone.


	10. Arc 1 - Chapter 9

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 9_**

_Dar-Meena_

Riften turned out to be a dead straight shot upstream. I made it there in half the time it would've taken me on horseback. Really started to appreciate my natural adaptions to water. You'd think I would've anyway, being an Argonian and all… But there weren't any lakes or rivers near Chorrol where I grew up. I rarely took advantage of my amphibious traits, even after I left. They meant little to me. Now they were the only reason I was still alive.

The river widened into a small lake, with a few clustered islands in the middle. I came ashore some ways away from Riften's front gates, dripping wet. Nearly all of my gear had been left behind. The only things I still had were the clothes I wore, a knife, and a light, soggy coin purse. Might've still been a lockpick or two in my pockets, but I didn't bother to check. I looked everywhere for the monster that attacked me. No trace. Just the sights of the city and autumnal forests.

The sun was starting to set. Thin strands of clouds lingered near the edges of the faraway mountains, dark and shadowed against an orange-pink sky. A cold wind blew, its sounds in the trees and over the lake. Cattle could be heard mooing from a nearby farm, along with a constant chirping of crickets – or were they tree frogs? I can never tell the difference. Some fishing boats were out on the water, not far from the wooden docks that branched away from Riften's outer wall. A couple of fishery workers were carrying small nets filled with salmon. Guardsmen were on patrols.

Everything was calm. Against my trauma, it felt so disgustingly uncomfortable. People stopped to stare at me, whispering to one another. I tried to compose myself as I walked up to Riften's entrance, sore and aching, past a log cottage and stables. There were two guards posted by the gate.

"Hold there!" one of them said to me as I came near, gesturing a halt with his outstretched hand, "That's close enough."

They wore uniforms of fur and leather mail, with purple accents matching the color of the hold's banner. You couldn't see their faces behind the blinds of their metal helmets; tall, slender looking things with small spikes at the top.

"I don't know your business," the man continued, "But sorry looks won't get you into Riften for free. You'll have to pay the visitor's tax, just like everyone else."

I stood upright from my tired slouch, dumbfounded.

"A tax?" I jeered, "What for!?"

"For the privilege of entering the city," he said, "What does it matter?"

Unbelievable. A shakedown, of all things. Whatever fear I had at that moment dissolved away. My burned shoulder started to flare and sting. I was pissed.

"What makes you think I've got anything worth giving you?" I growled, my voice forceful and rising in volume, "Do I look like–"

"If you don't want in, that's fine," the guardsman interrupted, "Makes no difference to me. Have a good walk to the next city."

I lost it after that.

"Sod off, you bastard!" I yelled, shoving back the guard. He reached for his weapon. "I didn't survive being attacked by some giant, flying lizard just to get panhandled by gate keepers!"

The men froze. They passed glances at each other.

"…Giant flying lizard?" the other asked with a hint of alarm, "You don't mean… a dragon?"

"Is that what you call those things!?" I snapped, "Huge wings, sharp teeth, breaths fire?"

I swear I saw the guard's eyes widen behind his helm. That was when I noticed. People working the stables and farmland had come to dead halts, listening intently to my words.

"It can't be… She could be lying…" the second guard spoke to his companion.

"You," said the other to me, "When did this happen? Where did you see this dragon?"

"Further down river, along the side of the road," I grumbled, "It killed my companions and a traveling caravan. Head back there and you'll see it. The place is a graveyard."

The guardsman who tried to rip me off started running down the road. I almost stopped him out of frustration. Where did he think he was going?

"I'll pass on the news to the watchtowers," he called back, "Get this Argonian to Mistveil Keep!"

I watched him race along the stone path. He was definitely spooked. Had a pretty good pace going.

"You heard him," the other guard said to me while unlocking the gate, "The Jarl's going to want to hear about this herself."

So much for the 'visitor's tax.' I hated having to brush off the quarrel so tersely. But these larcenous law bearers were taking my news very seriously. That didn't sit well with me. Pushing open the heavy wooden doors of Riften's eastern entrance, the guard stepped inside.

"…What's a Jarl?" I asked, following close behind.

* * *

Didn't take long for me to have my answer. Jarls are the men and women who govern Skyrim's holds, like counts or countesses back in Cyrodiil. They're usually accompanied by a Steward, someone who handles logistics or legal matters while offering council, and a Housecarl, a sort of personal bodyguard. There's a court wizard too, naturally. Thanes as well. They're important for some reason, considered to be members of the Jarl's court. I couldn't figure out why.

All of these people were assembled in Mistveil Keep, Riften's castle. We stood in a dining hall, the first room you walk into, a large stone chamber with a high vaulted ceiling. Chandeliers with candle holders made of goat horns hung from above, while a fire pit occupied the center space, tinting the room in warm colors. Dark wood dining tables boxed around the fire, lined with all sorts of roasted foods and cold beverages. Mounted deer heads hung on the walls, along with banners bearing Riften's insignia, two crossed swords stitched in yellow on a purple background.

Laila Lawgiver, the Jarl, sat on her throne near the back of the room, elevated atop a small flight of stairs. She seemed a stocky looking woman under her regal robes, lined with white fur around the nape of her neck and embroidered down to the hem. She wore a silver circlet atop her forehead, keeping her red hair cropped back. The Nord studied me with peculiar scrutiny.

"…And you swam the entire way here?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "The dragon stopped following me some time after."

I was told to give a full account of what happened. So I did. The Jarl and her dressed up court listened to my story with rapt attention. I just wanted to get it over with. My clothes were still cold and damp. Wouldn't have killed them to let me warm by the fire…

"Anuriel," the Jarl began, speaking to her high elf steward who stood close by, "Have our scouts come up with any other reports on this dragon?" Her voice was deep and poised.

"There have been scattered sightings by folk living out in the woods," the woman responded, "But nothing substantial until now."

Rumors of dragons were rife as of late, but nobody heeded them. Apparently they hadn't been seen for thousands of years. Not that they'd be able to say _that_ anymore.

"I trust we have someone looking into the site of this supposed attack?" the Jarl inquired.

"Yes, milady," her steward assured, "A small party has headed there now to investigate."

"Good," the Jarl said, relaxing somewhat, "Then we'll find out the truth of this matter soon enough."

"How are you going to defend this city if the dragon attacks?" I asked, "The walls sure aren't going to keep it out."

"We'll have a contingency plan in place for Riften's guard, once we've proof that your account is accurate," Anuriel replied.

"You think I'd make all this up?" I scoffed, frowning, "What happens if your men don't come back? What's to stop the dragon from picking them off too?"

"Our men know the risks," the Jarl's housecarl asserted. His war painted face and moonstone armor were washed with firelight. A claymore rested on his back. He had the guise of a Nord who'd lop your arm off if you looked at him funny. "Even if there is a dragon, they'll make it back."

"You haven't seen it," I hissed, "You don't know what it can do…"

"And you should learn when to hold your tongue," the man retorted, a sneer lifting the hair of his goatee.

"Leave the girl be, Unmid," Laila interjected, "Whether her story is true or not, she's clearly been through an ordeal."

The Jarl turned to me, sitting upright in her throne.

"I'm afraid we can't offer you much aid," she said, "Our resources are spread thin from the war. Speak with Talen-Jai and Keerava at the Bee and Barb. I'm sure they'll be willing to help you."

I nodded, dismissing myself as I walked toward the grand wooden doors of the castle entrance. Talen-Jai and Keerava… Those were Argonian names. Didn't think any of my kind would bother to live this far north. I shrugged off the thought. The pain in my shoulder was intense, but I knew I'd never be able to afford a healer's services with what little I had left. Nothing to do but suck it up and trudge on.

Stepping into the freezing air outside, I slowly walked toward the inn the Jarl had mentioned, my shoes crunching dead leaves beneath my feet. Everything was dyed a darkish, blue hue in the sun's absence. I stayed close to an outer wall, brushing my hand against the cold granite, a light breeze sending shivers down to my tail. Lots of shadows around, dark places to hide… I took note of which spots were hardest to see.

What little illumination there was shone against the cobbled walls and wood work of houses. Mistveil keep lead down to the town center, a circular space surrounded by boardwalks that rimmed the chasm of a waterway bellow. A low stone wall sectioned off a gathering of heckler's stands and stalls, making a sort of cul-de-sac. There was a large well in the middle. No shops were manned – it was past the hour of business.

I knew better than to whine out lout, but I wished things would stop happening, that the world would slow down enough for me catch up. Too much was changing too fast. I'd lost nearly everything I had to my name and giant killer dragons were roaming the skies. As if that weren't enough, Lisaa and Ertius were dead. I kept seeing their last moments in my mind's eye. The Gods know I had no love for them. But the way they died… It was too much. I wouldn't wish that kind of death on anyone.

The sight of a stranger walking out of the shadows broke my melancholy. He'd been leaning back against the wall of a house, underneath the shade of a balcony above. The man looked like a Nord, clad in heavy steel armor with high-set pauldrons. His knightly appearance contrasted the mien of menace on his rugged face.

"Never seen you before," the man said, his voice gruff but deep, "You and Riften looking for trouble?"

I didn't like where this was going.

"That depends," I replied tetchily, "Is it looking for me? Or can I keep walking…?"

"Don't say something you'll regret," the Nord furrowed, speaking surly, "Last thing the Black Briars need is some wise-ass mouthing off in their city."

"Uh-huh. And the Black Briars are who?"

"They're the family that runs this place. Keep gold coming in and out. And they don't like people who meddle in their affairs. Best keep that in mind while you're here…"

"Oh cut the tough guy act," I said, rolling my eyes, "I get the message. Are we done?"

The man took a step forward. He did not look happy.

"You'd better not be this damn stupid," he sneered, "I don't make empty threats. The Black Briars have Riften's guard in their pocket and the thieves' guild watchin' their back."

I stifled a laugh.

"Aw, so that makes you their little guard dog, doesn't it?" I mocked, "Adorable."

If he'd been angry before, he was pissed after that. The veins on his neck were bulging. The Nord came forward and grabbed my collar, slamming me back against a wood support beam. He was putting pressure on my bad shoulder. I fought hard the urge to scream in pain.

"That's enough out of you," the man growled. The scent of his oily black hair was thick in my face. "Think I ought to send you off with a couple of broken bones."

Can't imagine it'd have been hard for him to do it, too. I mustered what bravado I still had into a smile.

"Not afraid to get your hands dirty, huh?" I said.

"I'm gettin' really sick of hearing you talk."

"Then I'll keep this simple. My hands aren't exactly clean either. If you're willing to set aside our dispute, I think you'll see we're on the same level."

The hefty Nord wrinkled an eyebrow.

"Is that so?" he questioned.

"You mentioned a thieves' guild," I said, "It just so happens that I came here looking for them. Point me in the right direction and the Black Briars can have themselves a new ally." That last part was a lie. Didn't give a damn about keeping ties to people or organizations. I promised myself I wouldn't do that anymore.

The man pondered my proposal.

"How do I know you're not some half-assed poser?"

"You don't make empty threats, right? Well, I don't boast…"

I made a quick glance downward. The Nord followed my eyes. He saw the tip of my knife pointed at a chink in his armor.

"…I'm just good at what I do," I assured, a triumphant smirk on my face.

The man pushed away. My arm was trembling from the twinge of my shoulder's burn. With his pressure off, the pain subsided somewhat. It was sweet relief; I'd almost caved.

"Guess you're not as a dumb as you look," the Nord said with newfound surprise.

"Is that a compliment? I'm flattered," I replied, feigning amusement, "So what can you tell me about the thieves' guild?"

"What's not to tell?" he snorted, "My brother Dirge works in their hideout. I used to run with them myself before they started hittin' a rough patch."

"_Dirge_?"

"And I'm Maul. I watch the streets for the Black Briars, now."

Hmph. Some names. They sounded more like job descriptions.

"Alright," I said, "So how do I contact them?"

Maul stopped to look toward the town center for a second.

"You'll want to talk to Brynjolf when he gets back," Maul answered, "He handles recruitment."

"'When he gets back?'"

"He's out on some business. Don't know how long. You'll have to make your own way around for now. Just take my advice – don't go thieving yet 'till you've joined. The guild doesn't like outside competition."

That figured. Still, no competition if you don't know someone's competing. I wouldn't get caught.

"Fine," I said, stretching, "Now, _are we done_? It's cold out here."


	11. Arc 1 - Chapter 10

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 10_**

_Chases-The-Wind_

I hate sleep. Necessary for one's health it may be, I never look forward to it. Sleeping leaves you vulnerable – susceptible to harm in so many ways. Poison. Suffocation. Strangulation. A simple knife. The body lies limp and unwary of the world, unconscious but not unthinking. Sometimes a restful mind will meander to places unseen by the one that wakes. Yet it can just as well wander to those dark recesses of memory, to places long forgotten. Or places you want to forget…

Pardon me. I mean to say, simply, that I had not slept well.

In the mountain hills near Whiterun, looking out onto the far stretched plains, I camped. To dare stay at the city's inn would usher innumerable risks. Owners often kept records of their tenants, while inns themselves were far too open to the passage of people. I cared not for how painstaking my efforts had been to travel north unfollowed. No chances would be taken. I would leave behind only the faintest of traces to my whereabouts.

Anything contrary would drag me closer to those seeking me out, slowly, like death's embrace from the festering of an unsewn wound.

With morning now on the horizon, I gathered my meager belongings and trekked the final paces toward my destination. Beyond the ranges of the alps, Skyrim's scenery changed drastically. The verdant hills and forests of the southwest sloped into vast valleys, with scattered trees distanced by miles amidst thick, dry grass and shrubs. Everything tanned in warm, achromatic colors, save for the sky. Distant mountain ranges, jutting creases in the land, could be seen clearly without obstruction, lending a great sense of depth to the view. In the midst of the plains sat Whiterun, enclosed within grey brick walls. Dragonsreach, the palace of the Jarl, towered among feeble buildings and farm windmills, its Nordic architecture beautifully rendered in woodwork and stone. Against a backdrop of the rising sun, it was a foreign but beautiful sight. Ralof had described it for me, but my eyes bared witness to the shortcoming of his account.

I had left Riverwood and Ralof's company quietly, with brief goodbyes and a small clutch of provisions to send me off. No intentions were held to return. The less I remained involved with his family's life, the better.

Upon closer inspection of Whiterun's walls, their age became more apparent. Portions were worn and weathered away. There wasn't a single smooth edge along the top lining. One could only guess how long this place had stood for. I made my way up the bending, sloped path toward the city gates, admiring the make of aqueducts that filtered from within the walls to the outer plains. Clearly some integrated water system was in place. Perhaps collected at higher elevations from rain?

Guardsmen eyed me suspiciously from vantage points. The hood of my cloak was drawn over, concealing much of my face. I wore a simple set of garbs underneath, lent to me by Hod. The man's clothes were large for my frame, but it would have been worse to keep my fur coat – torn, scorched, and still stained with blood. The thought of trying to clean and repair the suit was… Disagreeable… Cutting a proper tail hole in Hod's pants had been oddly cumbersome enough, and little faith remained in my mending abilities after the incident with my botched crossbow. I was allowed entry into the city without naysay, though given stern warning not to cause trouble. No concerns there. Placidity is my preferred state.

The sun kissed and stone paved streets of Whiterun were bustling with people going about their lives. Sounds of civilization filled the silence of the windless day. If I had to describe the locale with one word, I would settle for 'fair' – fair in color, climate, and temperament.

A decent emergency fund was in my possession, some 600 odd septims, collected in advance of my northbound excursion. Before seeing the Jarl, I thought it best to complete some commerce. I delved into my reserve to pay for proper crossbow repairs, leaving my weapon in the care of a Bosmer manning the city's hunting lodge. I also requested a set of armor to be fitted by a blacksmith. It would be a simple ensemble of leather, minus the helmet, for no one ever tailored them properly to shape (and I refused to saw off my horns). Surprisingly, these two expenses alone almost depleted my fund. Not that I ever claimed to be a good haggler.

Whiterun divided into three districts, distinguished by elevation: the plains district, wind district, and cloud district. Dragonsreach comprised cloud. I walked past the merchant stands of plains and upward toward a central plaza in wind. Its centerpiece was a massive, dead tree. Supposedly it was called Gildergreen and stood as a symbol for Kynareth, the Cyrodiilic pantheon's goddess of wind, air, and sky – called Kyne by some Nords. Though, honestly speaking, it seemed a rather unfitting symbol. Perhaps it was once, while it was alive.

I followed the steady streams from aqueducts and waterfalls up rock-laden stairways. My eyes squinted in the glaring sunlight. A bridge crossing over a large, man-made basin stood as my final passing point to the Nordic palace upon the city's highest terrace. I stepped through the doorway. The antechamber within was immense – its make and structure entirely wood, accented by abstract relief work. It gave off an unfamiliar smell. Casement windows with latticed lights lined the walls toward a flight of steps that led to the grand hall, its large fire pit running the length of wooden, cloth covered dining tables. Carpets lined the floor, awash against firelight in creamy colors, along with hold banners hung high upon rafters. Maids worked busily, their brooms brushing back and forth, collecting dust. The Jarl, Balgruuf the greater, sat slouched in his throne at the back of the room, his steward in attendance.

Balgruuf seemed a stately sort of Nord, but stalwart, his middle aged features set with a crop of blonde hair and a well-trimmed goatee, grown out into a lengthy beard from his chin. This along with a regal attire and golden circlet, inlaid with various jewels, painted my first stanch impressions of Skyrim nobility. As I walked toward the throne, I almost faltered, for the sight of a great skull, that which once belonged to a creature of notable size, hung from the stone brick wall behind the Jarl. It's angular shape struck me at once – it was the skull of a dragon.

Though unpleasantly reminding of Helgen, this was a revelation. The monsters could die. Perhaps there was hope.

"…cannot afford to act rashly in times like these. If the news from Helgen is true… well, there's no telling what it means."

A conversation between the Jarl and his steward slowly came into earshot.

"What would you have me do then?" Balgruuf retorted, "Nothing?"

I strained to listen further, only to be halted by the Jarl's housecarl, a dark elf woman clad in leather armor. Her sword was drawn in light of my presence.

"What's the meaning of this interruption…?" she prodded, her dunmer accent dense against a tenor voice, "Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."

"I bring a message from Gerdur in Riverwood," I said, "The village is in danger."

The dark elf straightened somewhat, her face drawing an inquisitive look.

"As housecarl, my job is to deal with all dangers that threaten the Jarl or his people. So you have my attention," she spoke, matter-of-factly, "Now, explain yourself."

The Jarl and his steward had stopped conversing, their attention now on me. My eyes flicked their glint toward the men.

"Forgive me, but I was told to bring this message directly to the Jarl."

"Whatever you have to say to the Jarl, you can say to me," the housecarl replied, with growing suspicion, "I'm starting to think–"

"It's alright, Irileth," the Jarl spoke up, "I want to hear what he has to say."

The woman let out a low huff. Sheathing her weapon, she withdrew to Balgruuf's side as I stepped toward the throne. Large fire pits cast in bronze colored metal stood on either side, throwing misshapen shadows of the dragon's skull against the back cobble wall. The sight had an unsettling quality, much out of place amidst the palace's warm atmosphere.

"What's this about Riverwood being in danger?" the Jarl inquired, "Who are you?"

"Merely a wanderer, brought here by happenstance," I said, "A dragon has destroyed Helgen. Gerdur fears that her village may be next. I share this fear as well."

"Gerdur? Owns the lumber mill, if I'm not mistaken," Balgruuf replied, "Pillar of the community. Not prone to flights of fancy…"

The Nord stroked his beard, seemingly in thought. He held a slight air of hesitation.

"And you're sure Helgen was destroyed by a dragon? This wasn't some Stormcloak raid gone wrong?"

My returning gaze was firm.

"I was there when it happened. I saw everything."

The Jarl sat up straight as the tone of the moment took its turn. Guards posted nearby chanced glances in my direction.

"You were at Helgen?" the Jarl exclaimed, "You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"

"Yes. It razed the entire village. Cut down a garrison of Imperial legionaries," I said, "They were preparing to execute Ulfric Stormcloak, when it happened."

"Ulfric," Balgruuf muttered, "I should have guessed he would be mixed up in all of this…"

He turned to his steward, a feeble looking Imperial with bald hair, wearing fine clothes and a faded blue overcoat of gambeson.

"What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

Irileth stepped forward.

"My Jarl, we should send troops to Riverwood at once," she advised, "It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains…"

"The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!" Proventus interrupted, flustered, "He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him! We should not–"

"Enough!" Balgruuf barked, a scowl on his face, "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!"

He regarded his housecarl.

"Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes my Jarl," the woman replied, heading off toward the guard barracks within Dragonsreach. I was happy. Balgruuf seemed to sense the urgency of the matter. For this, at least, he placed the safety of his subjects over political concerns. The Jarl's eyes met mine.

"This is vital information you've brought to me," he said, "You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it."

Balgruuf turned to one of his guardsmen.

"You there. Fetch me one of Eorland's blades from the armory. This Argonian deserves a reward."

"Yes my lord," the man saluted.

Proventus looked defeated, but otherwise equable.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties," he said, and walked away.

Within moments, the guardsman returned, possessing a scabbarded sword. He handed the weapon to me. It was heavy, but not unwieldily so.

"Take this as a small token of my esteem," the Jarl insisted.

I admired the look of the sheath's leather, accented with steelwork that bore distinct, curved designs, akin to typical Nordic dressings. Clasping the hilt of the sword, held out in front of me, I felt a slight eagerness to examine the blade.

"May I?" I asked, seeking the Jarl's permission. He nodded his approval. I drew the sword half-way. Gleaming firelight played along the flawless surface of steel. Unabashed astonishment crossed my face. Sharp, sturdy, flexible – this weapon was masterfully made, unlike anything I had ever seen before. The steel blades of my spawning ground seemed more like kitchen knives by comparison. Was it normal for Jarls to present gifts such as this?

"Remarkable," I spoke softly, "This is far more than I deserve."

"Keep it well," the Jarl said, a smirk on his face, "That sword is made of skyforge steel. You won't find better craftsmanship in all of Skyrim."

I shut the blade within its holder, resting it at my side.

"You have my sincerest thanks," I said, looking to Balgruuf with a slight smile, "If there is nothing further, I'd best be off. Please excuse me."

Turning, I began to walk away, clearing no more than four paces before I heard the Jarl speak once more.

"Wait. There is something more you could do for me."

I paused.

"…I'm certain there is," I replied, facing Balgruuf again, "But I must decline. This one is no sword for hire."

"You went out of your way to help deliver this message," the Jarl said, "Riverwood will have its aid. But the dragons are a threat we still don't understand."

I listened intently, though some deep root of me felt apprehensive.

"You survived Helgen. You know more about these beasts than anyone else here. And while you're certainly no Nord, you look capable."

"What exactly do you want from me?" I asked, regarding the Jarl with sudden reserve. Balgruuf stood from his throne.

"Come. Let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and… rumors of dragons."

Balgruuf began to make his way toward the east wing of the palace. Reluctantly, I followed. Refusal was within my right – to escape the whirlwind of events that had swept me, there and then. But if there _was_ anything I could do to help confront the dragon's threat… Could I refuse? I knew none of these people, the Nords of Skyrim, and I understood them even less. But that did not matter. Their lives were at risk so long as that monster was still alive. As with Ralof before, I would not stand idly by.

Resting a hand on the pommel of my new weapon, I felt an old, icy comfort in once more possessing a blade. Yet much like the people of this land, it was a stranger to me, as I was a stranger to it. Acquaintance would come in due time. The most I could do was think of a proper name for the sword.


	12. Arc 1 - Chapter 11

**_Arc 1 - Chapter 11_**

_Falura_

Sundas, 15th of Last Seed 4E 201

It was the day of my departure. I find it difficult to describe the mix of emotions I felt. My husband Ethyl and I walked together to the far outskirts of Blacklight, toward a gathering place near the mouth of the Dunmeth Pass. We followed a loose, dirt road through knolls and plains of the Velothi's rain shadow, dry and arid. Behind, the great city capital of Morrowind appeared small and remote – the last bastion of a once proud people. Its newfound scale and Dunmeri architecture had come to rival even Mournhold in its heyday, with grand buildings and towers set in igneous rock among hills of rhyolite. Nonetheless, it was a stark reminder of our recent fortunes. Recovery efforts in wake of the Argonian invasions were slow coming. It would take years to rebuild; even more to reclaim the rest of the province from their occupation.

But that day would come in time. For now, I had more paltry concerns.

Clouds drifted lazily in the azure sky, sifting through the tops of distant mountains. I plodded along like a three legged creature, my staff reduced to the role of a walking stick. Trimereous sprigs of metal stemmed from atop its wooden shaft, a bright red crystal being its crowning piece. It was a staff of destruction, aligned to the element of fire. It was also the only thing that justified my existence as a mage – a term I use loosely in self reference. My red-orange robes felt hot and dusty. A tote bag filled with my belongings slung over my shoulder. I wished I had worn something better for travel, like Ethyl's hiking boots and light cloth garments.

"Why do I have to do this…?" I groaned absent mindedly. My mood had only soured since we left.

"You've asked that question all week," Ethyl chided teasingly.

"And I'll keep asking it," I growled, "Azura knows I'm at my wits end."

"Azura? By the three, _I_ know it better than anyone by now! You haven't been this talkative in decades," Ethyl said, chuckling at his jest, "For all your fuming, I'm surprised you didn't do more to avoid this trip."

"Would there have been a point? The Telvanni could ask me to leap off of a cliff and I'd still have to do it."

"Might do well to keep that thought to yourself. You'll give them ideas."

I laughed a heavy, sad sort of laugh.

"That would be rather pleasant, for a change. At least they'd be listening to me…" I trailed off.

Ethyl rested a hand on my shoulder, giving a slight shake. There was a look of empathy in his eyes, with the ends of his bearded face raised in a big, wrinkly grin.

"Now don't you start getting depressed," he said, "I don't need a mental picture of you moping your whole way to Skyrim."

"I wouldn't mope the whole way."

"Oh, of course not. Just most of it."

I smiled at that. He was probably right.

To clarify the situation, I had recently been asked by certain high members of the Telvanni, one of Morrowind's ruling houses, to entertain a task. The Maryon family was preparing to send their daughter to the College of Winterhold in Skyrim, for further education in the arcane. Being of considerable wealth and influence among the Telvanni, they sought a proper escort for the girl, that she might arrive at her destination safely. Among hired help, it was deemed fit that a representative of the great house accompany young Brelyna on her journey.

As a Retainer to house Telvanni, the second lowest title that can be held in their hierarchy, I was chosen for this task – to be, candidly speaking, a glorified chaperone.

"I only wish I knew why they left this chore to me," I mused, "Surely there must have been others more readily at hand."

"And I suppose any other soul would be full of jolly cheer to go in your place?" Ethyl teased, "There's good reason few Dunmer travel west, these days. You know word of war in Skyrim is rife."

"Don't remind me," I sighed, "It'll be just my luck to die somewhere remote, face down in the snow, swept up by a drove of skirmishing Nords."

Ethyl let out an odd, grouchy guttural sound.

"Are you so bent on making me lose sleep?" he said, "I'm quite content without these images of your ill-fated misery."

"If there's a silver lining you see in this mess, by all means," I goaded, "I would love to hear it."

Ethyl pondered for a moment. A slight breeze whistled past, barely enough to ripple through the fabric of our clothes. Whips of short, dark hair blew in my eyes.

"Well, for one thing," he started, "You _are_ traveling to the College of Winterhold, one of the few remaining mainstays of arcane study in Tamriel."

"True enough," I conceded.

"Plus, just think – they're bound to have an Arcanaeum or some sort of library. That should provide you with all the sustenance you need for the time that you're there."

I could only laugh and shake my head in response. The man made a good point. It would be worthwhile to see the troves of knowledge kept at this college. When it came to matters of magic, I felt I could never learn enough. Over years and decades of studious research, delving into every theory, conjecture, and secret of Aetherius I could find, I had accumulated a vast wealth of arcane gen, to match even some of Telvanni's greatest spellwrights and wizards. No small feat for someone as young as I, having not even lived my first century.

And yet, by some curse of ill fate, I was relegated to the dregs of the great house's ranks. For you see, unlike my fellow mages, I possess no inherent magical ability. None. Not even the slightest hint. I can no more cast a spell than grow wings and take flight. Indeed, my state is not so unlike a bird clipped of its treasured extremities. You cannot imagine the longing frustration.

Or perhaps you can. Either way, it is of no difference to me.

In due time, we came within sight of my destination – a small village in the hills, where a carriage and my soon-to-be traveling cohorts patiently waited for my arrival. From the tired look on Ethyl's face, I could tell he'd had his fill of walking. Now would be the time to part ways.

"Phew… Well, there you are, my dear," he said, extending his hand out toward the village, "Your entourage awaits."

"Oh, such excitement," I feigned, "A band of pungent bodyguards and a teenager in tow. The companionship I'll have…"

I looked back toward my husband, with mixed emotions.

"You didn't have to walk all this way with me," I said.

"But I wanted to," Ethyl replied, smiling.

Words were failing me. I could think of nothing to say that would suit the moment, or my feelings. Ethyl, instead, came forward and kissed me.

"You'll be fine," he assured, "It's only for a week, is it not?"

"Yes," I said, smiling back.

With final goodbyes, we set off our separate ways. I waved ahead to the carriage rider who had caught sight of me, hobbling forward with my staff. The trip _would_ only be a week. At least, if nothing else, I had that assurance to hold on to.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

_The descriptions I've used for this location are not lore-established. In truth, there are no definitive accounts of the region near Blacklight. Here, I've simply made guestimations based off of what I know about geography and what seemed fitting given my sparse knowledge of Morrowind. I am willing and able to retcon this chapter if anyone knows for a fact the geographical conditions and climate of Blacklight._


	13. Arc 1 - Chapter 12

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 12_**

_Reinhardt_

A rain shower started pouring as I came near Falkreath's front gate. I'd hiked for a few short hours from Angi's cabin after staying overnight. We parted on… Satisfying terms. She even gave me one of her bows as a gift. No arrows, of course, just the bow.

It was early morning; couldn't find the sun, but there was enough light from behind the clouds to see where you walked. Water drizzled down the needles of pine trees like tap from spigots. The whole village was settled in woodlands, with some slight clearing near a lumber mill, powered by a steady stream of mountain runoff. Everything else was pretty much what you'd expect – mountains, boulders, trees and typical Nordic buildings of wood, rock, and thatch. Nothing fancy. Falkreath was ordinary. And _damp_.

Oh, but wait, did I mention there's a massive cemetery? No? Funny thing about that…

Falkreath is most well-known for its ancient ties to death and war, or so the traders in town will tell you – the same people who have nothing better to do than name their shops with _puns_. I'm not kidding. They've got stuff like _Grave Concoctions_ and_ Dead man's Drink…_ Even the farm is called _Corpselight_. Got to give them credit for trying to lighten up the place. It was sure dreary, even more so with the weather. Folks still went about their daily lives, even in the rain. Some looked off the moment you saw them; downcast and dismal, with those creepy sort of faraway eyes. Sometimes they'd mumble things.

As much as I hated the morning mire and macabre of the village, I thought I ought to at least stop by the graveyard and pay my respects before hitting the tavern. I'd get a bit wet, but hey, the Nords under those tombstones would be getting it worse. Felt bad for them. The last time I visited Falkreath I might have been… what, five? Six? One of those. Back then I was convinced the cemetery's graves went on forever. They don't, but even as an adult I strained to count them all. It was sure something.

Turns out I wasn't the only person visiting the dead. There were three people all gathered near a small memorial slab. One of them looked like an old high elf in orange robes, soaked to dark sienna in the rain. I think he was the town's priest of Arkay, in charge of the cemetery and its upkeep. The other two were a man and woman – Nord and Imperial – both with skin tanned from many years of farm work. I walked over to them.

"May the spirit of Lavinia and all those who have left this world and its suffering know the beloved serenity of Aetherius…"

The priest was praying on behalf of the departed, his voice aged and hoarse.

"…and may we one day rejoin them in eternity."

I watched for a short while as the priest made his finals remarks. He left the company of the married couple, still lingering by the grave site. Slowly, I stepped forward, my boots sloshing in the mud.

"Who passed away?" I inquired softly, hoping I wouldn't seem a bother.

The man passed a forlorn glance at me.

"Our daughter," he said, doing well to swallow back his sadness, "Our little girl. She hadn't seen her tenth winter…"

"My sympathies," I murmured, pausing for a moment, "It's none of my business, but how did she die?"

The look in that man's eyes when answered me, glum and grief-stricken, made me wish I'd kept my mouth shut.

"She was… He ripped her apart. Like a sabre cat tears a deer. We barely found enough of her to burry."

I hesitated. My expression caught the pain in those words like a sickness.

"Gods, I'm sorry… I shouldn't have asked. I know the wilds can be such a dangerous place."

I thought to say more, but something the man said suddenly struck me as odd.

"Wait, what do you mean 'he' ripped her apart?"

"It was Sinding," the farmer answered, indignant in tone, "Came through as a laborer. Seemed like a decent man…"

"A _man_ did this!?" I exclaimed, "Wha- How did… Why!? What became of him? Where is he now?"

"He's stewing in the pit while the guards figure out what to do with him," the man answered with bitter resentment.

I assumed he meant this Sinding was locked up. My blood began to boil.

"That so? Might have to pay him a visit," I muttered, "See this 'man' for myself..."

* * *

Fealkreath's prison was built underground just beneath a guard barracks – stone walled and log supported, with iron barred jail cells. A few guards were on patrol, casting shadows from wall mounted torches as they moved to and fro. The men didn't give me any guff when I asked to see Sinding. Must've not been the first person to ask. They treated my visit routinely.

One cell was set apart, different from the rest, at the far back of the prison chamber. It was tall, a cylindrical cavity, like the bottom of a giant well. Murky light filtered through a small window high up where the cell peaked above ground. Water was pouring in, trickling down mortared crevices within the cobble wall lining. The cell floor had filled into a shallow pool. A scrawny man with mangled gold hair sat in it, downcast. He wore only a pair of ragged trousers, belted with a rope at the waist.

I tapped the iron bars of his cell door with the steel plate of my gauntlet. Sinding looked up from his resting place. His chest heaved a single, sad sounding chuckle.

"Come to gawk at the monster?" he teased.

"I can if it'd make you feel better," I mocked in turn, "You know, if you feel anything at all."

The man looked away. He seemed a pitiful sight. Nothing but skin and bones. No strength in his muscles. So how did he…?

"I hear you killed a little girl," I said, leaning forward against the iron door, "Any truth to that?"

"Believe me, it wasn't anything I ever intended to do…" Sinding replied, standing up. His pants were dripping wet.

"Intent and deed are two _very_ different things," I snorted.

"You think I don't know that? I feel terrible about what happened. I just… lost control," the killer continued, "I tried to tell them, but none of them will believe me."

Go figure. It was all some big misunderstanding.

"What do you mean you 'lost control?'" I reproached, "You're talking nonsense."

Sinding didn't reply right away. He thought to himself for a moment.

"What do you see when you look at me?" he asked.

"I don't care," I groaned, "What _should_ I see?"

Another pause. The man's melancholy was getting on my nerves.

"I suppose there's no point in keeping the secret if I'm going to die in here," he said, "I'm sure you've heard of men who shift to beasts under the influence of the moons."

I stopped slouching and stood straight, arching an eyebrow.

"…I am one of them." Sinding declared.

"Werewolf," I mused, "You're a _werewolf_? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes. It's my secret, and my shame," Sinding said, downcast.

It was a lot harder not to laugh than you'd think. _Werewolves_. The stuff of bedside stories and old fables. Man beasts. They were real, of course, I knew that much – those tales aren't told for nothing – but the thought was still ridiculous. I'd never seen one in person.

Still, if he _was _a werewolf, this whole affair wasn't so unthinkable anymore. His feeble frame didn't look fit for the crime he committed. If Sinding spoke truth, that meant the body I could see wasn't the one he used to kill the girl.

"You're still not making sense," I chided, "You said you lost control. How? Why did this happen?"

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and silver.

"It's all on account of this blasted ring," he muttered.

"Ring?" I queried, "What ring?"

Sinding walked up a set of steps to the door where I stood.

"This is the ring of Hircine," he said, showing it to me. It glistened in his wet, filthy palm. "I was told it could let me control my transformations. Perhaps it used to. But I'll never know…"

Hircine. This man had the ring of a Daedric Lord. I'll spare you a lecture on the Princes of Oblivion – just know that they're demigods who rule their own planes of existence. And they like to mess with mortals. People like you and I. They're nothing but trouble. Hircine in particular is known as the "Lord of the Hunt." He's the one who fashioned lycanthropy in the first place, the disease that creates werewolves, unleashing it upon Tamriel. Or so I've come to learn.

"…Hircine didn't care for my taking it," Sinding continued, "So he threw a curse on it. When I put it on, the changes just came to me. I could never guess when. It would be at the worst times."

"Like with the little girl?" I murmured.

The killer averted his eyes.

"When I saw her, I was just… I could feel it coming on. I could taste the…"

Sinding trailed off. He looked to me.

"…I needed to hunt."

At least the man was conscious of what he'd done. Not that that made things any better.

"If that ring's caused you all this trouble," I said, "Why do you still have it?"

"I thought I could try to appease Hircine," Sinding replied, "Beg his forgiveness and give back the ring. But that's over now, isn't it?"

He tossed the ring to me through the bars.

"Take it. You've bothered to listen to my story. I don't want anything to do with this wretched thing anymore."

Holding the ring in my hand, I looked at it more closely. Upon the slick, silver band a small wolf's head had been shaped. It wore a vicious expression on its face.

"So, what," I grumbled, "Do I go throw this in a lake or something?"

"If that's what you want, I won't be the one the stop you…" Sinding murmured, walking back into his cold, damp puddle. Guess he didn't feel like talking anymore.

* * *

I walked back out into the rain, wishing it would clear up already. My mood had gone south. Couldn't get to that tavern fast enough. I'd had enough death and depression for one morning.

The ring was surprisingly heavy. I fiddled around with it while I walked, looking at the make of its metal work. Fat chance I'd be able to pawn it for any decent coin. Nothing to do but find a place to chuck the thing and leave. Rolling it around in my hand, the silver band seemed oddly large. How did that scrawny man wear a ring so big without it falling off all the time? Absentmindedly, I slid the ring onto my finger to see how it fit me.

Of all the dumbest, dumb things I've done in my life…

The moment it slipped on, I could feel the band begin to tighten. I tried pulling it off. Wouldn't budge. Pulling harder did nothing. I'd have to take the whole finger along with the ring. It was stuck.

I looked around, hoping no one had noticed my sudden distraught. Sinding said the ring was cursed. I double checked everything about myself – pulse, breathing, hair on my skin. Was something supposed to happen? I didn't feel any different.

For the life of me, I couldn't remember all that Sinding had said. There was something about his transformations coming at the worst times… What else had I forgotten? There must have been more. Mulling over the man's words I still recalled, it came to me. This ring only affected _when_ he changed from. The changes themselves didn't come from the ring – they came from his lycanthropy. Alarm slowly settled to calm. The curse wouldn't do anything to me because I wasn't a werewolf. Right?

This left a bit of an awkward feeling. Though the ring was dead weight, I still had no way to remove it. The thing would just… be there, on my finger, for Shor knows how long. Shrugging, I let the issue slide to the back of my mind. I was sure I'd find some way to get it off, eventually.

Dead Man's Drink, the inn and tavern, was a much needed distraction. Stepping inside, the bright light of a large fire pit, filled with charcoaled wood and burning embers, washed the whole of the room. I lingered near it for a while, drying myself off. There were dining tables lining walls draped with animal skins. Deer heads were mounted above a counter space where the bartender worked. The scent of the building's pine wood work mixed with sweet, Nord ale. People were scattered about, talking, eating, and warming by the fire. A group of revelers were gathered in a corner – farm or lumber workers, from the looks of the rough clothing they wore. The sounds of their laughter and drinking rang through the open room.

"Hail, friends!" I called out to them, a wide grin on my face, "Good to see some people are enjoying themselves this dreary day!"

The three Nords looked over to me, before letting out a collective cheer.

"Aye, what else are we s'posed to do?" one of them said back to me, cheerfully. He wore a set of green, cloth clothes and a leather cap on his head. "Come, come! You look drenched as a dish rag!"

"Feel like one, too," I replied, stretching lazily.

I took a seat on the table the group had gathered and climbed about, propping my legs on one of the seats.

"Valga, another round," the man called to the barkeep.

"Bah, make it four! One for him and rest for me," I shouted in turn.

The woman soon brought us out drinks. I downed my first mug quickly, wiping the foam form my mouth.

"Ysmir's beard, I needed that," I muttered, thoroughly satisfied as the ale warmed my stomach.

"So what brings you Falkreath, traveler?" the Nord with the cap asked.

"Passing through," I said, "I've come from Cyrodiil to see my family."

"Fine thing, that. Where are they?"

"Helgen," I replied, sipping another mug, "Not far. I'm sure you've been that way before. We'd always get people passing through from Falkreath while I lived there."

The man's faced seemed to sober at me saying that. His expression was troubled. The other two drunks behind us burst into a roaring laughter over some joke they'd made.

"…Helgen?" the capped man murmured, "You're family's from Helgen?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to mask my confusion from his unexpected change in tone, "So? Nothing strange about that."

"You haven't heard…?"

"Heard what?" I asked, more annoyed now than confused.

The Nord looked to his companions, still taken by fits of bubbling mirth.

"Hey you two, knock it off for sec. This guy's from Helgen. He doesn't know what happened."

I stood from my seat. Something felt wrong about this. One of the man's friends settled down, sharing a sudden solemn expression. The other, completely wasted, only responded with a blank stare.

"What don't I know? What's happened?" I demanded concernedly, "Tell me!"

The drunken man started cracking up. His laugh tipped me over the edge. I stepped forward, grabbing him by his collar. His jollity melted to apprehension.

"Stop laughing! What's so damn funny!?" I shouted. People about the inn silenced their conversations, lending their gazes to the sudden commotion. I turned to the other Nords, both silent, taken aback by my temper.

"Are you going to fill me in, or not!? What happened at Helgen!?"

"…Helgen's gone," the capped man said softly, "Destroyed. There's nothing left."

The shirt collar of the drunken man slipped from my fingers. Those words tumbled about my mind. I almost couldn't make sense of them.

"No," I mumbled, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, "That can't be. I'd just gotten a letter no more than a week ago…"

"They say a dragon attacked," the man continued, "Burned everything to the ground. I know how crazy it sounds, but…"

Was I hearing him right? Did he just say a _dragon_ attacked Helgen?

"Are you so drunk you can't even get your story straight!?" I exclaimed, voice rising with anger, "What kind of fool do you take me for!?"

"Dragons have returned to Skyrim, friend. Word is spreading like mage fire. Believe me, I wouldn't–"

I cut him off and stormed away. Slamming through the tavern's door with a beat of my fist, I stepped back in the cold rain, its chill bringing goose flesh. My breath vapored in the thick air. I began to run down the road. Toward Helgen. To prove the men were lying.

Some part of me knew their story was true. But I needed to see for myself.

I still remember the thoughts that boomed in my head. _What's wrong with this town!? Werewolves? Dragons!? Is all of this real? What's become of Skyrim since I left? Has the province fallen to madness?_

From the grey, clouded sky, downpour streaked against my face. Each step sent water splashing through the air, boots nearly catching in thick puddles of mud. Falkreath's lodgings and homes blurred away into green forests. I knew the path. Didn't need to think. It was all from memory, now. My whole body had given itself to one purpose.

I had to see what truly became of my childhood home – what became of my family.


	14. Arc 1 - Chapter 13

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 13_**

_Chases-The-Wind_

The morning had brought rain. Its constant patter filled my ears – a pleasant sound, so nearly the same no matter where encountered, like a dear friend met time after time along roads traveled. My scales were satisfyingly moistened in the downpour.

I found myself on the returning path to Riverwood, moving along a winding road that steeped and coiled near White River falls. The roar of nearby rapids came louder than ever, its torrent bolstered by the weather's influx of water. The surrounding greens were damp and loamy, toned in the lack of light. I traveled hurriedly, hoping to beat the sun on its course into the sky, hidden behind a thick curtain of clouds. Riverwood was not my destination – it was merely a passing point. I traveled at this time of day specifically to avoid being seen. As I came over a final rise, an ancient Nordic ruin, peaking from atop a northern range of mountains, arose into view.

Bleak Falls Barrow.

* * *

The previous day in Dragonsreach, I had no inclination of what to expect when Balgruuf introduced me to his court wizard. The thin Nord wore a blue robe with white trimming and kept a hood pulled over his head, hiding most of his long, narrow face, save for a set of thick brown mutton chops.

"Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your project," Balgruuf spoke to the wizard as he and I entered his quarters, "Go ahead and fill him in on all the details."

The man kept a cluttered workspace, tables and shelves rife with notes, books, alchemical ingredients, and even a few soul gems. He appeared to have a craft for potion making and arcane enchantments, evident by the many alembics and beakers lining his desk and the distinct markings of an arcane pentacle upon a table near the back. Farengar lingered his attention toward a rather hefty looking tome before addressing my presence.

"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" the wizard said lazily, his mind clearly occupied with other tasks, "Oh, yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons…"

"That is the assumption," I responded, "What would I–"

"Yes, yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me," Farengar interrupted, standing from his seat.

"Err… Pardon? This one–"

"Well, when I say fetch," the man interjected again, gesturing with his finger, "I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

At least the wizard was forthcoming…

My face hung a look of annoyed disinclination. Was I to take this man seriously? I turned to the Jarl, arching a set of spines that browed my eye, half expecting and half hoping he might say something more sensible. I was given nothing of the sort – merely stoic silence. Sighing, I returned my attention to Farengar.

"Alright," I muttered, "Where exactly do you need me to go? And what I am looking for?"

"Straight to the point, eh?" the wizard replied, smiling "No need for hows and whys. I like that. Leave those details to your betters, am I right?"

I returned an impatient glare.

"…I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow," Farengar continued, uncomfortably, "A 'Dragonstone,' said to contain a map of dragon burial sites."

Odd. What service would such a thing provide? Moreover, were there truly burial sites dedicated to the remains of dragons? For what reason?

"I have not heard of this place, 'Bleak Falls Barrow,'" I said, deciding to leave my questions unspoken.

"It's an old tomb," the wizard clarified, "Built by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon War itself."

…Dragon War?

"Ah. Maybe you just want to know how to get there," the man said, deflating, "It's near Riverwood, a miserable little village a few miles south of here."

My thoughts refocused at the mention of that name.

"So you're asking me to–"

"Yes. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet – no doubt interred within the main chamber – and bring it to me. Simplicity itself."

"How are you so certain this Dragonstone actually exists?"

"…Well, must retain some professional secrets mustn't we? I have my sources. Reliable sources."

I paused for a moment to consider all that had been said. I knew too little to feel comfortable with this errand. I also knew time was of the essence. In the face of such a colossal threat, even _my_ paranoia could be swayed.

"So what do you say?" the Jarl prodded, seeking a response from me, "Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons – we need it quickly, before it's too late."

After mulling in place for as long as I could, I gave my answer.

"…I will do this for you," I said, speaking in low tones, acquiescently, "A single assignment, if it will aid your efforts as you say. But nothing more. My concerns are for the people of this hold – not your research, however inclined."

* * *

Rain became snow as temperatures dropped with rising altitude. The buckled armor that had been fit for me in Whiterun was warmer than my previous attire, though a bit tight. Its brown leather was inland with insulating fur, a welcome work of Nord ingenuity. I hiked along the side of a mountain, with Riverwood in view some ways out and below. Bleak Falls Barrow rested at the crest of the path. Theses cliffs were diminutive compared to the size of the Throat of the World, but they were nothing to scoff at. I needed to carefully watch my treading – patches of ice and sleet were gathered everywhere among the rocks, some hiding beneath blankets of fresh snow.

I checked the ground carefully for footprints as I walked. Any that lingered would not do so for long, before being filled again. There was no reason to assume anyone else had come this way, but I had not survived all these years by being reasonable.

To much surprise, I did discover feint traces of boot tracks. Some three or four people had traveled to the barrow. No prints returned in the opposite direction. It was safe to presume they were still there, alive or otherwise. I double checked all equipment, pulled over my hood, and retightened the straps on the scabbard of my sword. I had decided to name the blade Xehtasksen – or "resolution" in Jel, my native tongue. It rested firmly against the waist of my armor, as fine a killing tool as I had ever possessed.

I only hoped its skyforge steel would have no need to stain red. Not just yet.

The wind began to howl as I turned a banking curve along the path. I raised my hand up to my face as snow whipped against me, flecking the fur and leather of my clothing. Bleak Falls Barrow unveiled from behind hills of rock. Even in the blinding winter, one could not mistake its form. Grand stone arches, adorned with decorative carvings that protruded from its slants, aligned parallel to one another in a rising slope. The crypt had been built firmly into the mountain side. Large flights of steps inclined on either side of the ruin's outer terraces, each leading to more upward stairs that ascended to the entrance.

Such a peculiar style of architecture, so grandiose… And all for burying dead? I could not tell if the stone carvings were abstract or meant to resemble something. A few looked like heads, long and angular, reminiscent of beaks or snouts, though that may have been my own perception. They were difficult to see clearly, at any rate, while a storm blew. I was eager to get inside, but not so eager as to become hasty. There remained the matter of potential company. Entering through the front entrance would be foolhardy; what better way to be spotted? I scaled the steps of the Nordic ruin and wound around to the side, in search of another way in.

A portion of the barrow's antechamber roof had concaved. A large opening was exposed where stone work had once lain. Under normal circumstances, getting inside from such a point would be impossible. The wall stood at least a story high, slick with ice and snow, while the mountain's slopes proved far too treacherous to climb.

No matter. There were means in possession to overcome such obstacles.

I ran my fingers along a set of vials holstered at my waist. Each contained a unique alchemical fluid that served its own purpose. Their contents sifted through my mind; Histcarp toxicant, Taproot and White Cap extract, Ginseng with Mandrake Root…

Stopping at the fourth vile to my left, I pulled out the container and held it up to my eyes. Its whitish, yellow contents sloshed inside the glass, thick and viscous. The ingredients of this particular potion were not completely known to me. I suspected some component of Dreugh Wax. Popping open the vile's cork, I raised the glass to my snout and swallowed a portion of its contents. The chalky, acidic mixture slithered down my throat. Returning the container and its stopper to my belt, I waited a brief moment, licking the roof my mouth.

Then, with a spring of augmented strength, I leapt over ten feet into the air, clearing the top of the wall.

My claws dug into rocky ice as I vaulted the cold, slick stone, catching myself before dropping off on the other side. I needed only a split second to map the room. It was dark and gloomy, built with autochthonous rock that matched the mountains. Moss grew everywhere, tinging the stonework in olive drab. Two large support columns held up an arched and vaulted ceiling, while snow fluttered down from skylights, settling onto the rubble that littered the barrow's floor. Rank scents filled my nostrils – the corpses of gutted skeevers were strewn about, large rodents native to Skyrim. A makeshift campfire flickered near the back of the chamber, sleeping bags nearby, with a man and women standing by the flames keeping warm. They looked to be Nords, garbed in fur and leather clothing. Both were armed; one with a mace, the other with a bow.

I dropped down as quietly as I could, taking cover behind remnants of the fallen roof. Sounds of conversation were distant and vague. I moved in closer, keeping to the shadows. My tail attuned to act as a counter balance with each careful step, distributing my weight perfectly along the floor's varied surface types. Years of training and mastery manipulated every movement. Silent. Calculated. Precise.

Pressing against the chamber's support column farthest from the man and woman, I eavesdropped.

"…We're just supposed to sit here while Arvel runs off with that golden claw?" the female asked her companion.

"That dark elf wants to go on ahead, let him," the male responded, "Better than us risking our necks."

I wanted to know what they were talking about, but an interrogation would risk a fight. There would be no killings if I could help it. I would manage well enough on intuition.

"What if Arvel doesn't come back? I want my share from that claw!"

"Just shut it. Keep an eye out for trouble."

I devised a plan to slip past. It would be messy, but not lethal. A large clay pot, partially broken, stood from across the room. I picked up a chunk of rock on the floor and took aim.

"What trouble? You think that shop keeper's going to send someone? Nobody's coming after us."

The rock tossed through the air, crashing into the pottery. Its cacophonous clattering echoed through the chamber. I withdrew as the two Nords startled.

"Did you hear that?" the man asked, pulling free the blunt instrument at his waist.

"Was it another skeever? I don't see anything."

"Damn it… Wait here. I'll check it out."

I listened carefully as the man's footsteps grew louder, closer. He came over to inspect the shards of clay. I inched around the column, placing it between me and the Nord's vision.

"Well? What is it?" the woman called out, impatiently.

"Nothing. I don't–"

The man stopped mid-sentence, whipping his attention to the sound of my knife tapping three times against a stone.

"Huh? Hang on, I hear something," he said, bringing his weapon to bare, "We're not alone…"

The Nord moved toward the sound with a quick, impetuous gait. Slowing down, he circled to the back circumference of the column. I circled in unison. The pillar further down the chamber kept the woman from seeing me.

"Ah-ha!" the man uttered in premature triumph as he came to the spot where I once was. Frowning, he lowered his weapon, only to recoil at the sudden sensation of a blade slicing his hand. The man's grip loosened reflexively. I pulled away the mace from his grasp. Before he could fully turn around, my arm snapped around the Nord's neck in the span of a blink. The crook of my elbow constricted his jugular veins, while my opposing hand locked the arm firmly in place.

"Thtachxuto jeer-c'ei tsuqlop," I hissed as the struggling man slipped from consciousness.

Carefully, I timed the duration of my blood choke, slackening the noose of my hold before inflicting serious injury. I kept the limp Nord caught in my arms. There was no way to know how long he'd stay out, though he would be disoriented for a time. Best not to dawdle.

"Hogvir?" the woman exclaimed, "Hogvir, what's going on?"

I repositioned near the edge of my cover, dropping the Nord onto the floor in clear view of the campfire. The clanging of his mace soon followed as I tossed it nearby.

"What the– By Ysmir!" she hollered at the sight of her fallen comrade. The woman's bow was raised and drawn as she backed against a wall, checking everywhere for signs of movement.

"Xhuth," I swore, peering from my hiding place. She wasn't going to come for him. That made things difficult. I snuck closer to the campfire, until a final barrier of shadowed rubble was all that flanked me against the light. Then I readied my crossbow. If I could manage to properly wound her…

Before taking aim, however, I heard movement. The woman was walking. I glanced over, sighing in relief. She was going to the man after all. Good.

Holstering my weapon, I slinked past, rushing down the corridor beyond as quietly as possible. With luck, my disruption would dissuade the Nords from perusing. But I was not about to bank on such a fortune. I weaved through the ancient crypt, keeping a brisk pace, hoping to leave those two well behind. My goal remained further within the heart of this place. Darkness, rock, and earth cloistered me on all sides. I fought back against a growing discomfort.

Until the Dragonstone was within my possession, I would not return to Whiterun. I never left assignments incomplete…

* * *

***Author's Note**

_The phrases and words in Jel (excluding "Xhuth") used here by Chases-The-Wind were all made up. I referenced both established and fan-made aspects of the language to try and create some believable words and sentence structuring._


	15. Arc 1 - Chapter 14

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 14_**

_Falura_

Tirdas, 19th of Last Seed 4E 201

Light from candelabras bathed across the age worn pages of a book – Luminal Bridges, by Camilonwe of Alinor. Nestled in the crook of my arm, I flipped through its pages, skimming their contents lazily. Twice had I already read through this book that day. I was at a loss for tasks to occupy myself. The College of Winterhold's arcaenium contained an impressive collection, but alas the libraries of the Telvanni at Blacklight still reigned supreme. It was rather disappointing.

We had arrived yesterday after two days of miserable travel. The frigid climate of Skyrim was numbing and blustery. Snow had not ceased to fall since crossing the border, coating the ground in a thick, icy coverlet. It reminded me of the ash fall from Red Mountain, the way its igneous plumes engulfed the island of Vvardenfell. I am not above admitting that I felt a little homesick. Nevertheless, I would have to remain at the college for three more days until the traveling guard made its return trip to Morrowind.

With the other mages of the college either busy with their own private studies or instructing the lasted clutch of initiates, I kept to the arcaenium. The dark stone brick of the dodecahedral chamber seemed to keep in the cold rather than ward it away. I was tempted a time or two to employ one of the room's wooden table sets as a source of tinder; jokingly of course. What worse place to ignite a fire than a library? Wooden cabinets with tinted glass panes lined the outermost walls, while room dividers sectioned off a low-stepped center space, lit by the flickering flames of silver candle holders. Animal skin rugs were scattered on the floor, laid with smooth ceramic tiling, while the mounted heads of sabre cats hung from above. While the architecture of the college possessed a distinctly arcane flair, its adornments were unmistakably Nordic.

I continued to sit and read for some minutes, trying indolently to lose myself in the text, before the urbane voice of an old man broke the silence of the room.

"Ah, forgive me – Falura Andrilo, was it?" he said. I looked up to see the visage of Savos Aren, Arch Mage to the college, standing before me. "I was told you would be here, but I wasn't aware you were busy. Perhaps I should return another time?"

I closed my book and set it on the table beside me.

"Oh, don't bother," I said, waving off his remark, "I'm merely wasting away the hours. To what do I owe this visit?"

Savos took a moment of pause before responding. This was the second time he had spoken to me since my arrival. The first had been a brief greeting – the sparsest exchange of titles and words. He was a busy man. The wrinkles of his dark countenance betrayed the age of a Dunmer whose energy felt unusually youthful. Not in the sense of adolescence, but more of what you might see in a person's prime. I suspected him to be at least a few centuries old. His robes were adorned with coarse furs and masterfully embroidered, giving him a rough yet authoritative appearance. A long beard ran down the length of his chin, tied in a knot at the base. A slim hood dressed his head.

"We have not yet spoken at any length since your arrival," the arch mage said, "Most unbecoming of me. I understand this trip has been something of an inconvenience for you."

"Quite. But the choice to come was not mine," I replied, sighing, "I'll not be the one to deny a request from the esteemed wizards of the Telvanni…"

"You show dedication. They are fortunate to have someone like you among their ranks."

"Bah. I'll hear none of that. I act in courtesy. The Telvanni would deny me such an acknowledgement, anyways."

The Arch Mage had an inquisitive look.

"You feel they disrespect you?" he asked.

"Not so much disrespect as disregard," I chided, "They waste my time with menial tasks."

"Is that so surprising? We must all begin somewhere. You still remain under their tutelage. Clearly some part of you is determined to be worthy of regard."

I had to think on my response to that comment. I wasn't sure if he knew of my stunted magicka.

"Indeed. I've much life yet unlived, and many things to prove," I said, "I oughtn't give up my aspirations in the face of repudiation, ephemeral or otherwise."

Savos returned a slight grin, thoughtful but oddly provocative.

"No, you shouldn't," he replied, matter-of-factly, "Come. We'll speak more outside."

"As you wish," I conceded, not inclined to object exposing myself to the cold.

I picked up my staff and walked with Savos through spiral stairwells and vaulted halls. The college's insignia, woven onto navy blue tapestries and hung from high walls, bore the symbol of an eye enclosed in a circle, with five spear points protruding like an upside down pentagram. Once outside the large, wooden doors that closed the vault of the building's entryway, a grand courtyard opened up, settled in snow and sleet. A semicircle of three-story wall enclosed the space like a colosseum, with tall, slender arches. Cornices of ice hung like claws over the edges of its peak. Magelights floated atop small cylinders of rock in the place of torches – balls of pure, aetherial illumination. In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by sparse snow covered pines, stood the sculpted aspect of a mage with open arms, robes blowing back, standing in front of a column of blue light that shot upward into the sky from a pool of magical essence.

Snow fall blew into my eyes with the morning wind. It was a dreary, cloudy day; a picturesque scene of the college. Savos and I walked to the outside of the courtyard, to where the high ceilinged walls provided scarce shelter from the snow, but lessened the bite of the wind. The Arch Mage seemed perfectly comfortable in the cold. I imagine I would have been too if my robes were so laden with fur as his.

"Low visibility in all of this snow," I said, pulling a hood over my head, "A shame. The view of the sea must be beautiful here."

Savos didn't respond. He merely gazed out of the archways. The college stood atop an impossibly thin column of rock, at least a fourth of the actual building's diameter. A thin, stone bridge was all that connected this place to the village beyond. Long ago, much of the town of Winterhold crumbled away into the Sea of Ghosts, battered by monstrous and inexplicable waves. What remained was a husk, with few buildings and homes – losses impossible to recover from. But the college somehow remained standing, perhaps kept this way by arcane forces not fully known. This lent to accusations that magic had caused the disaster, only further souring the college's reputation in the eyes of the local Nords.

"I don't know how you manage in this place," I remarked, resting my staff against a wall, "Between the cold weather and inhospitable natives, Skyrim seems a caustic environment for the work your mages do here."

"Most of us have grown accustomed to the weather, and the pressures of the world do not weigh down on us as you might think," Savos responded, "Besides, someday the College may be fully accepted by the Nords."

"Is that your belief, or your desire?"

"I don't think it makes a difference. Our college has survived much. For as long as it remains, we will remain with it."

I stared off into the sky. Clouds began to thin as the snow flurry slowly subsided.

"If you don't mind, I must ask," Savos began as he turned to me, a hint of anxious curiosity in his voice, "It has been much too long since I've heard any news. How have our people fared in Morrowind? I trust you can give a proper firsthand account."

"I wouldn't know where to begin," I said.

"Have the great houses made progress to regain their strength?" he asked.

"Somewhat, yes," I mused, "Redoran has established its governance militarily, as I'm sure you know. The other houses are at its beck and call. Their combined forces have staved off further incursions from the Argonian invaders."

"They haven't reclaimed territory?"

"No," I spoke tersely, my voice bitter and resentful, "They still occupy much of the southern region. Those lizards have dug their claws in deep – we will not take back our land without great bloodshed."

"You sound like you would welcome this," Savos inquired, concernedly.

"Do I?" I reproached, "I am certainly not a battle mage. Warfare is no desire of mine."

"But you think it is necessary."

I paused for a moment, leaning forward against the cold stone wall, my countenance stern.

"I think that the Argonians will regret their decision to bring wanton violence against the Dunmer. The centuries of their invasion must come to an end." This, at the very least, I wholeheartedly believed. I won't pretend I hadn't some personal vendetta. Still, they deserved to pay for the scores of lives they'd needlessly killed.

Savos stopped to scratch an itch on his face.

"Well, it is not–" he managed to say, his words cut short at the booming sound of sudden noise. A dissonant, metallic roar echoed through the air. Both he and I came to attention.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, frantically looking about for the source of this strange cry. I too tried to locate this sudden disturbance. It was not long until I caught sight of movement.

"Up there, in the sky! Look!" I exclaimed, pointing toward a clearing in the clouds. There was a winged creature in flight, circling among the peaks of faraway mountains. It's hide shone brightly from our vantage point – whitish grey, almost silver. The creature was enormous in size, with sharp spines protruding along the length of its body, head to tail. It glided on the wind with grace, bellowing loud and ferocious roars, as though to flaunt it's might and majesty. For something so sizeable, it appeared weightless on the air, banking and swerving about effortlessly.

Mages and students walking about quickly began to gather near the walls, coming to witness the marvel before us. Others peered from behind the wooden doors of their study chambers. I was practically leaning over the edge of the archway, transfixed, trying to see as best as I could. Morrowind was host to all manner of fantastic beings – netches and silt-striders among those most noted by outlanders – but nothing like this. In time, the beast descended, disappearing into the alps. Murmured conversations had broken out through the courtyard. Forthright elation shone on my face; I hadn't the wits about me to recompose myself.

"By Azura," I spoke fervently, "Savos, what was that?"

"I'm… I'm not sure…" the Arch Mage faltered. He had a strange, faraway look, both shocked and melancholic at once. I stretch my powers of perception in saying this, but it seemed as though he _had_ recognized something.

"You've never seen this before? Really?" I prodded, "Has _anyone_?"

"No," he said, staring off, "I believe we've just witness the first living dragon in thousands of years."

* * *

Middas, 20th of Last Seed 4E 201

Wide awake despite the lack of sleep, I fastened the strap of a large, leather bag across my shoulder. A fur cloak and hood complemented my robes, adding much needed layers of warmth. The raw mountain ranges of Skyrim would not be welcoming. Yet despite the potentially hostile voyage that awaited me, it is difficult to recall another time in which I had felt such excitement. Preparations were nearly complete. I assembled all of the resources I could, stocking up on a few extra spell scrolls, along with soul gems to keep my destruction staff charged. The Three willing, I wouldn't have to use it.

"You're serious about going?" the Arch Mage remarked, standing in the doorway of my guest quarters, "With a party, perhaps, I could see, but by yourself? It could be very dangerous."

In the space of the cramped room, clutter was strewn about all over – books, potions, scraps of paper, ink pens, and maps. They littered every space they could occupy, from my pine desk and shelves to the green blankets on my bed spread. This was the product of a full night's worth of research. I would clean it all later. If I was to find that dragon, I should have begun my search yesterday.

"I hope you're not here to badger me. I'll have enough of that from my husband when he hears of this," I chuckled, enunciating every word I spoke with gusto, "There's no need to worry yourself. I'm taking all necessary precautions. I'll be back before my escort begins its return to Morrowind."

"Are you certain this is wise? There's no way to know what this dragon is capable of doing. It may be best to leave it alone, for now."

I stopped to regard the old Dunmer. His worn eyes met the glint in mine.

"I'll admit, I'd never even heard of dragons before yesterday," I said, a bright smile on my face, "But my investigations thus far have given me good insight. They're remarkable beings! And to think they haven't been seen since the second era! When will another opportunity as this present itself?"

None of my research, theories, or conjectures had yet earned any place among the Telvanni's collected intelligence. But this would be different. No studies had been performed on dragons, surely not in any depth. This was knowledge yet to be gathered, an unexplored horizon. It was impossible to envisage what I would discover, though one thing was clear: I had to find something worth bringing back.

"Well… It's obvious I can't say anything that will change your mind," Savos relented, "I won't delay you any further."

Giving a curt farewell to the Arch Mage, I left the confines of my quarters and stepped out into the College's courtyard. The sky was crystal clear for the first time since my arrival, breaking dawn. I pulled out a map and referenced the location I sought to tread. The dragon had flown somewhere near the southern ranges of Mount Anthor. I hoped that I might catch a glimpse of the winged beast again – and perhaps find where it roosts. Taking my first steps across the bridge to Winterhold, my excursion began.


	16. Arc 1 - Chapter 15

**_Arc 1 – Chapter 15_**

_Dar-Meena_

"Talen! Another round!"

The sound of a boisterous, drunken Nord rang through the inn. His name was Vulwulf. If the first thing you noticed about the old man wasn't his stately clothing, expensive furs, mangy beard, or bloodshot eyes, it was the stench of alcohol that was _always_on his breath. Talen-Jai, the bartender, was busy cleaning food plates. His dark green scales glistened from the light of a river stone fireplace.

"I think you've had enough, Vulwulf," he said, his voice deep with a raspy, Black Marsh accent, "Maybe you should head home."

"You stupid lizard!" the Nord bellowed, slamming his mug on a wooden table, clattering silverware, "I said give me some more drink, or I'll have your head on a pike!"

"Suit yourself," Talen shrugged, setting down his rag.

This was the sort of sad sight I got to watch on a regular basis. At least Talen seemed used to this sort of thing. He and his partner Keerava ran the inn, 'The Bee and Barb.' It was a sturdy but timeworn wood lodging, with thick walls of pine logs and the kind of creaky floor boards that sound hollow when you step on them. Candles set in decorative horns lit the main dining space, filled with plenty of table sets and scattered animal-skin rugs. Strings of garlic and fresh game hung behind a bar counter. A few scattered people were eating midday meals.

Seeing that Talen was busy tending to the intoxicated, I picked up his slack and started cleaning plates myself. I knew I'd get an earful from Keerava if I didn't. The woman's a tyrant with hired help. In exchange for a few days' worth of bed and board, I had to work at the inn, at least until I could contact the Thieves' Guild. Not exactly my idea of high living, but I wasn't in a position to refuse. The only other option was to stay in the city sewers.

Still, despite my complaints, these two were doing me a favor. And I never forget favors. I'd find some way to repay them down the line. They were decent enough people.

Though to be honest, it surprised me that they got along so well as a couple – they were starkly different personalities. Keerava was the innkeeper, a pale, tan scaled Argonian with a nasty scowl and guff attitude. She'd be the first person to kick your ass out the door if you were broke. Didn't take crap from anyone, either. I once watched her break up a bar fight all by herself. The woman's not afraid to throw her own punches. Talen, on the other hand, was easier on the eyes and a more kind and gentle soul. The guy had his limits, sure, but he'd be the person to try and work out a conflict through conversation instead of a straight up brawl.

As I kept up my cleaning, a small group of people walked through the front door and took seats.

"Hey, Talen! Get off your lazy tail and help the customers!" Keerava badgered, busy wiping down the front counter.

"Keep your scales on!" Talen chided, "I'll be there in a minute."

Did I say those two got along well? Let me rephrase that. They got along _most_ of the time. As for me, I just tried to stay on their good graces. On the whole I'd settled into Riften fairly well. It'd been less than a week since I first arrived and I was already recognizable to most folks. If they didn't know me by name, they knew my story. Surviving a dragon attack has a way of giving you sympathies and a scary reputation.

Meanwhile, working at an inn helped me get a good sense of the city and its people, for better or worse. In time, I could reference any person I needed to in detail. Example: Vulwulf is patriarch of the Snow-Shod clan and a heavy supporter of the Stormcloak rebellion. His drinking habits became rampant after he lost his daughter to the war. Vulwulf's wife is Nura, a healer and priestess. Their two remaining sons are Unmid, the Jarl's housecarl I met some days ago, and Asgeir, who's betrothal to an Imperial woman in Solitude was creating friction in the Snow-Shod family. I knew the location of their household and had a rough idea of its floor plan too – you know, just in case.

Information is a commodity for thieves. The more you know, the better position you're in at a moment's notice.

A couple of hours so passed uneventfully. The inn was nearly empty, minus a few straggled people about. With most of the day's chores completed, I decided to take a break for a while.

"I'm heading out for some air," I called to Keerava.

"Make sure you're back here in time for dinner!" she nagged in her scratchy voice, "We're expecting a full house tonight."

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, waving a hand behind me.

The warm afternoon sun greeted me as I stepped out from the shade of the inn to the low stone wall of Riften's cul-de-sac. It was bustling with commotion. The cries of hawking merchants standing under colorful, striped awnings were muffled by heavy sounds of talk and banter. Beggars sat on their mats and pleaded for alms at passersby. City folk were all about, browsing wares, gossiping, working, and running errands. Fiery colored leaves from autumn birch trees fluttered to the ground in heaps, filling every corner and crevice you could see. Aromatic scents of the town mixed with those of marine life, blown ashore from the nearby lake and up from the lower canals.

I didn't know what to feel about Riften. At a glance, it was a beautiful city – attractive, bright, and filled with energy. I'll tell you what, though, whoever came up with the phrase 'looks aren't everything' would have a field day in Riften. It was rotten to its innards. The people, the politics, the law and order; nearly all of it was corrupt. Those few who were honest wanted nothing more than to leave. The rest were either dirt poor, splurging on the wealth of others, or locked up.

I knew I could make a living in this place, maybe even thrive. But a part of me was still uneasy.

A light breeze drifted through the long, bleached white feathers on my head. The only set of clothing I had to wear was the one Keerava had lent me (at Talen's insistence). Lucky thing we were nearly the same size, though I sure didn't delight working in a corseted chemise and skirt. Especially not the goddamn skirt. I _hate_ skirts…

I readjusted a shoulder strap, the one that kept rubbing against my burn. It still stung like oblivion whenever something touched it. I'd finally saved up enough to see a healer, but by then I was told nothing could be done. They didn't have the means to fix an injury like mine, for whatever stupid reason. I could only relieve the pain temporarily by applying poultices now and then. To make all matters worse, I felt completely trapped, too afraid to even leave the city walls for a walk. Nothing would be worth another chance meeting with that dragon. Heaving a long sigh, I stared off at nothing.

Coming to Skyrim with Lisaa and Ertius was the latest in a long line of vain attempts to better my circumstances. The problem was I didn't know how to. I thought there might have been a glimmer of hope in the guild, but I wasn't holding my breath. They would be a means to an end, nothing more; the last time I genuinely put faith in a company of thieves I barely lived to regret it. I'd been drifting for two years with no course or direction, trying to pick up the broken pieces of my livelihood. I'll admit I had my regrets – I was going nowhere fast. Teenage runaway, notorious thief, dejected vagrant, and now this.

My ambitions didn't mean a damn thing if I couldn't move up in the world. What was I lacking? Maybe things might have been different if I wasn't so eager to always take the first opportunities that came to me. Words to live by: 'might have' and mud are fine places to wallow.

…Shit, I sound like my mother.

Anyway, I'm getting off track. It wasn't before long until I heard the voice of a man speak to me from behind.

"Running a little light in the pockets, lass?" he said.

I turned around to see a red-headed Nord with a chiseled jaw line and rugged features, wearing a coat of leather and gambeson.

"Excuse me?" I asked agitatedly.

"Your pockets… They're a little low on coin," he replied, a slight smirk on his face, "I can tell."

I let out an indignant huff.

"Great deduction," I scoffed, "Damn right I'm 'low on coin.' It's not exactly subtle."

"Aye, it certainly isn't. I'd say it's a real shame."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I retorted, turning my back to the man, "Piss off. My wealth in none of your business."

The man folded his arms across his chest.

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, lass. Wealth _is_ my business," he stated, still acting the slick talker, "Maybe you'd like a taste?"

Perhaps this guy didn't know what subtly was. Either way, that was all I needed to hear. This was the man Maul told me about, the one who could get me into the Thieves' Guild – Brynjolf – I was sure of it. I changed my tune.

"…Maybe I would. What did you have in mind?"

"I've got a bit of an errand to perform, but I need an extra pair of hands," the man said, "And in my line of work, extra hands are well paid."

I assumed this was going to become some sort of test. Go figure. At least the guild knew how to properly handle recruitment. I turned to face the man again.

"Just get to the point. What do I need to do?"

Brynjolf came slightly closer, speaking in hushed tones.

"Simple… See those two merchants over there?" he said, pointing to two different stands across from each other in the cul-de-sac, manned by a dark elf and an Argonian respectively.

"Brand-Shei and Madesi. I know who they are," I replied, "One's a trinket peddler and the other's a jeweler. Neither one's well off. What about them?"

"Listen carefully. I'm going to cause a distraction and you're going to steal Madesi's silver ring from a strongbox under his stand," Brynjolf detailed, "Once you have it, I want you to place it in Brand-Shei's pocket without him noticing."

"So we're framing him for theft," I muttered indifferently, "Sounds like he got on somebody's bad side. What'd he do?"

"There's someone that wants to see him put out of business permanently. That's all you need to know. I've been contracted to make sure Brand-Shei remembers not to meddle in affairs that aren't his own."

"'Contracted?'" I snorted, "Gods, this is starting to sound like a hit job."

"We're not going to kill him," Brynjolf said, sounding ever so slightly annoyed, "We're just going make sure he sits in the prisons for a few days."

I considered the man's proposal. Didn't really know Brand-Shei all that well. I had nothing against him. Nothing for him, either.

"Fine," I said, "So when do we do this?"

"Whenever you're ready."

I returned a puzzled look.

"Right now? You got some kind of tight deadline?" I remarked, "This seems like the sort of thing that'd go easier after dark."

Brynjolf started frowning.

"What is it with you and all these quips?" he said, "You're trying my patience, lass. Can you handle this work, or not?"

I laughed.

"Of course I can," I replied with a confident smile, "We can start now – I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

The Nord slackened his scowl, raising an eyebrow.

"Alright then," he said, "Wait until I start the distraction and then show me what you're made of."

I walked away, edging around the town center, seeming as nonchalant as possible. Brynjolf strolled over to a merchant stand of his own, displaying a set of strange, red bottles. He was about to begin the most ridiculous sales pitch I've heard to this day.

"Everyone, everyone! Gather 'round!" he began to hawk, "I have something to show you that demands your attention!"

People began to collect near the sudden commotion. Brand-Shei, Madesi, and the other merchants left their stalls. At first it seemed awfully careless of them to leave their wares unattended. Then I noticed guards beginning to circuit the marketplace, keeping close watch. I felt tense. The space between the back of Madesi's stand and the low stone wall wouldn't keep me concealed from all angles. What was Brynjolf thinking, trying this stunt in daylight? Maybe I'd been too quick to assume I could pull it off…

But as I slowly inched toward the Argonian's stall, one of the guards nearby stopped his round close by and stood in place. He gave me a languid sort of look before shifting his attention else ware. He was ignoring me – purposefully. I assumed that the man was in on this. So long as he was there, the others on patrol wouldn't suspect something was wrong. I'd underestimated the intricacy of Brynjolf's plan. Made me wonder if anyone else was in on it.

"No pushing, no shoving! Plenty of room!" the red-haired Nord called out.

"Come on Brynjolf, what is it this time?" Brand-Shei groaned.

"Patience, friend. This is a rare opportunity, and I wouldn't want you to get left out."

I was careful to watch the eyes of the crowd, slipping behind the stall when no one was looking. Hunkered down, I examined the laced wood-work of a small sliding door beneath the counter.

"Lads and lasses, I give you," Brynjolf announced, holding up one of his bottles, "Falmer Blood Elixir!"

"Oh come now," Brand-Shei said, "Are you talking about the snow elves?"

"The one and only," Brynjolf answered, "Mystical beings who live in legends and were masters of great magic. Imagine the power that coursed through their veins!"

There was a single lock. A standard pin tumbler. Easy. I reached for an iron lockpick inside one of the pouches on my dress.

"How did you get that, then?" Madesi questioned, "No one's seen them in years!"

"My sources must remain a secret for their own protection," Brynjolf responded, "But I can assure you that the contents are genuine."

"That's what you said about the Wisp Essence, and it turned out to be crushed nirnroot mixed with water!"

The lock gave way and turned as I pressed its final pin into place. I quickly slid open the door. Another guard started walking over. The one pretending to watch me noticed and intercepted the man, delaying him with conversation. Nothing like a dose of extra tension to keep the heart pumping.

"That was a simple misunderstanding, but this item is the real thing."

I pulled forward Madesi's strongbox. It was also locked, but this time with an angled key hole. A straight pick would be useless. Returning my iron lockpick to its pouch, I swapped for another made of copper. Gently bending the malleable metal into shape, I repeated the process from before – only this time much more carefully. Copper lockpicks break easily and I was using the only one I had. No second chances.

"One sip of the elixir and your wishes will be granted. Great wealth, everlasting life, or perhaps limitless power could be yours!"

I could feel the pick strain to keep its form as I applied torque. Slowly…

"How much does it cost?"

"Only twenty gold septims! Hurry before my supply is gone!"

"Don't listen to him! He's making this up!"

Done. The lock made a full rotation and opened. I wasted no time popping up the lid of the strong box. There were several contents within, mostly trinkets or undiscernible items, except for a fairly large coin purse. First I looked for the ring. It was near the bottom of a corner. I slid the band of silver out and rested it in my pocket. Then I admired the purse – from the look of it, there were probably at least 300 septims inside. Not a bad sum to have on a rainy day…

"Learn a library's worth of knowledge in moments!"

I closed the strongbox and slid it back, leaving the money inside. Taking it might cause complications. Besides, if I needed the coin, there were plenty of other places I could get it from.

"See into other people's thoughts!"

Slipping a small mirror out from another pocket, I adjusted its angle to view the crowd and patrolling guards, careful not to reflect sunlight in somebody's face. Had to see where everyone was looking before I made a move. Timing my motions just right, I holstered the mirror and quickly shifted behind the shingled roof well in the center of the cul-de-sac. I used everything I could to obstruct line of sight – the well, merchant stalls, barrels and crates – and slinked back to the outer perimeter before standing up in the open. By the time guards came over to Madesi's stand, I was nowhere near.

People began to notice me, but they were none the wiser. Some had actually started making purchases. To think they really fell for such a stupid ploy… Brynjolf saw that I was up and about. I gave a slight nod, looking away as I reached into my pocket, twiddling the ring in my claws.

"Well, I see that my time is up," he declared, suddenly packing his merchandise, "Come back tomorrow if you wish to buy!"

Confused and irritated murmurs arose from the gathering. Slowly, everyone began to disperse, resuming their day as normal. I walked toward Brand-Shei, pretending not to notice where I was going. Madesi's ring loosed from my hand and slipped into the dark elf's pocket as I bumped into him.

"Hey, be careful!" he cried.

I turned to the man, holding my hands up yieldingly. A triumphant smirk rose on my face as I spun forward. Not in any hurry, I moved away from the marketplace out toward the boardwalk above Riften's canal. A view of the distant lake widened beyond the mouth of the waterway. I lazily watched boats tread along its calm surface, beneath the clouds and distant mountains beyond. It was a short wait for Brynjolf to arrive. I could hear his footsteps clopping on the wooden planks behind me.

"'Falmer Blood Elixir?'" I chuckled, "They teach you how to make up crap like that in the guild?"

"Natural talent, lass – but never mind that. It looks like I chose the right person for the job," he said, stopping beside me. The Nord kept his countenance cool, despite sounding pleased, "Here you go… your payment, just as I promised."

Brynjolf handed me a bag. I checked its contents, losing the string on its mouth. The sack held something close to 100 septims. A bit stingy for something so high risk, but I didn't really feel like contesting my wages.

"So," I began, my hands resting over a wooden guardrail, "I take it this means I pass?"

"Quick to catch on, aren't you?" Brynjolf remarked.

"Always," I said, grinning.

"Well you certainly don't lack for confidence, lass," the man responded, "At least you've got some skill backing it up. You did the job and you did it well. Best of all, there's more where that came from…"

Brynjolf turned to me.

"… If you think you can handle it."

Despite everything, I had to admit – for the first time in a long while, things were looking a little brighter. Maybe my luck was finally changing.

"I hope you're not suggesting I can't."


End file.
